


A Bastard's Carol

by scumbaganarchy



Category: Bottom (UK), Drop Dead Fred (1991), Filthy Rich & Catflap (TV), The Comic Strip Presents..., The Dangerous Brothers - Mayall & Edmondson, The New Statesman (TV 1987), The Young Ones (TV 1982)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Christmas, Established Relationship, Ghosts, In relation to all the characters I've squeezed into this, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Parody, Period-Typical Homophobia, References to A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, References to Depression, Rick is not happy, Self-Indulgent, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 61,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21911242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scumbaganarchy/pseuds/scumbaganarchy
Summary: Dickens' 'A Christmas Carol' but with a TYO twist. Merry Christmas, everyone!After the death of his parents, Rick certainly isn't looking forward to Christmas this year. Nothing and no one can put him off his misery - not even Vyvyan, whose relationship with Rick has changed monumentally since the near-fatal bus crash. The house's only chance at a happy Christmas has somehow fallen into the hands of a certain imaginary friend. Hopefully, Fred knows what he's doing...
Relationships: Vyvyan Basterd/Rick (Young Ones)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 15





	1. Stave 1: Rick's Imaginary Friend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The Scumbags](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=The+Scumbags).



> Hello!  
> Welcome to this crazy mess that is my Xmas fic! I have been planning this for sometime and I'm hoping it's all going to work out alright and be finished not too long after the 25th. What should you know before reading this? Well, I tagged this as "self indulgent" for a reason because I've basically stuffed in as many characters from outside (but still alternative comedy) works in as I could. Heh. You should also know that it's quite angsty in places. In fact, in this first chapter you may have to squint for A Christmas Carol references through all the sadness. XD  
> I hope you enjoy!

Rick’s parents were dead: to begin with.

He might have said they were as dead as doornails but that didn’t sound very poetic, did it? Besides, it would have been far wittier to describe them as some door _knobs_ – not that he was making light of his parents’ deaths! It was just easier to laugh at knobs than actually deal with his mixed-up emotions. Especially at Christmastime.

In fact, 1984 would be Rick’s first Christmas without them. He had spent past Christmases away from home, of course, but had been assured in the knowledge that his parents were somewhere in middle England thinking of him. Presents had been sent, after all. But now, now they were gone forever. For all of Rick’s future Christmases to come and the ones beyond even that. They had blinked out of existence and hardly anyone knew or cared; neither of them had realised that the previous Christmas was to be their last. Truthfully, in Rick’s opinion, the world outside the shared house’s front door had become that smidgeon more hostile. Forever was a long time. How many years would he miss with them? How many milestones would they never witness? How many conversations – boring or otherwise – would now never happen?

These were the kind of thoughts that had been praying on the young poet’s mind more often that he cared to admit recently. It wasn’t just grief; Rick had mused to himself one evening in early December. He had been wrapped up in old bedsheets on the sofa next to denim and chains and studs and hair dye. Bastard Squad was on the telly. No, it had been too long for it to just be grief: June was half a year ago now and the crushing ache in his chest had subsided. What was it then? Really, Rick knew. Had known since the first messy snog in the hospital.

***

“What on _earth_ was that, Vyvyan!?”

He had broken away from the punk quickly in case it had been a mistake and Vyvyan didn’t mean it, his brain having caught up with his body. Naturally, Rick was good at antagonism and sounding outraged. _That was his thing_. He still hadn’t been able to stop the profound shade of pink heating his cheeks nor the revealing trembling in his voice but then it was dark on their ward and perhaps Vyvyan wouldn’t pick up on it.

There had been a scoff.

“Even you’re not a big enough virgin to need that answering, Rick.”

And Vyvyan had been right. Oddly enough, Vyvyan also hadn’t sounded particularly bothered. Rick wasn’t thinking so coherently about it at the time but he later came to decide that this had been the moment when his inhibitions were fully swept aside – why else would he have initiated messy snog number two mere seconds later?

This eventuality did not spring up from nowhere: the hospital had been a positively dreary place for all sorts of reasons, not least of which being that spending hours lying in bed gave all of them time to reflect. Well, Rick had certainly been doing just that.

Coming close to death must change people, he had concluded, it must be an awful reminder of mortality and all the regrets that might have come with dying in a bus crash at twenty-one, like he very nearly had done. The scariest part was his hazy memory of the event: there was his shock at seeing the cliff – and Cliff, of course – and the stomach-flipping paralysis and panic that came with their descent. Someone had been screaming. Had it been him? The faces of the others in those few seconds were hard to recall so he couldn’t be sure. It could have been Neil, the ruddy coward!

The most solid memory Rick had of the whole ordeal was the great shudder he had felt when the bus hit the ground. He was fairly certain he may have spoken then. Maybe. Then it ended.

He had woken up in hospital a few days later with what had initially felt like the worst hangover humankind had yet to experience. The sight of Mike sat up in his bed across the ward with the papers had been the first indication to Rick that something wasn’t quite right here; his second indication was the beeping machine set up next to him and the tubes stuck in his arm.

They were lucky, the doctors had told him disapprovingly, though Rick certainly hadn’t felt lucky. Out of the four of them, the most grievous injury attained had been some burning up and down Vyvyan’s right forearm, what with him being the closest to the explosion that had apparently occurred at the front of the bus. Vyvyan wasn’t upset by this, like a normal person may well have been. Instead, Rick had caught the punk grinning at his new likely permanent scars. Masochistic. Insane. Potty.

Almost in spite of this nonchalance, Rick had kicked up a _real_ fuss over his own injuries. He had been informed that he had a mild concussion, had inhaled a substantial amount of smoke, now had a few nasty cuts and bruises, a sprained wrist – his writing wrist, typically – and that the clothes he had been wearing were ruined, which counted as an injury in Rick’s mind. Still, it felt safer to complain about all of these temporary problems than dwell on everything else.

Which he was forced to do. At night.

The largest and most obvious of these dwelling points hit Rick on the first night, in fact. He couldn’t push the thoughts away when there was absolutely nothing to distract from them.

 _His parents were dead_.

There wasn’t anything intrinsically worse about this now then there had been when Mike had first told him but it _felt_ worse. Rick couldn’t focus on fantastical ideas of bank robbery and free living or even the bitterness of sleeping in the gutter when he was lying in hospital surrounded by silence. He couldn’t lie to the silence either: he felt… guilty. Rick didn’t often. Not because he was as astoundingly self-centred and selfish as Vyvyan took pleasure in insinuating he was, because…. because… look, he wasn’t self-absorbed, alright? That reaction – the one where he had called his parents “bastards” for being dead when he had wanted to spend the summer away from the guys – that had been caused by anger. That wasn’t who Rick was.

Was it?

Rick’s only other identity crisis had come shortly before he started Scumbag College, during a particularly low period in his life. _Someone_ had been instrumental in getting him out of this slump and had inadvertently opened his eyes to what a totally unfair world he lived in, as well as the fact that his middle class existence was probably helping to contribute to it. There were fascists _everywhere_ and Rick hadn’t even noticed! He hadn’t realised the truth, hadn’t cared enough! Politics and Thatcher hadn’t mattered so much to him at secondary school and sixth form. Back then he was far more preoccupied with trying to fit in with the other horrid boys. Surely, he was much better off as the People’s Poet – the spokesperson for a generation. Surely, this was an improvement.

His parents hadn’t seemed to care much about social issues, either. Rick knew they hadn’t really been bothered when he had ranted at them and told them how wrong they were not to care as intensely and immensely as he suddenly did about unemployment and prejudices but with them dead the memories made him feel rotten. A lot of people voted Conservative, didn’t they? Maybe his parents would have come around eventually if Rick had aced his sociology degree and wowed them with his knowledge of the truth behind society. If only he had finished _Das Kapital_ … if only he had _started_ it.

But, of course, none of these things had happened. Rick was sure the others heard him sobbing into his pillow on that first night. Try as he did to muffle his grief, there was just no way to mute it completely. Besides, it _hurt_. More than any of his pathetic injuries did. More than anything ever had in his entire ruddy life! He cried so much that his head throbbed when he blinked and his throat ached when he swallowed. He must have looked a mess; he was utterly spent.

Rick squandered that night away hoping whenever exhaustion finally claimed him and he fell asleep that he would never wake up again.

However, he did.

The other inevitables he was forced to consider in the coming days had included the likelihood that he would have to retake his course at Scumbag and actually study this time. Somehow, Mike had been granted access to a telephone and had gotten their eviction from Balowski overturned – largely owing to the fact that Jerzei had mysteriously disappeared and was assumed by the pigs to have been the evil mastermind behind the recent bank robbery. The house on Codrington Road, being a remarkably unpopular property, even for students, was won back with little persuasion on the cool person’s part. This was the only good news for a while.

The most important inevitability was the one that had led to Rick’s messy snog with Vyvyan. He supposed it tied into not wanting to die with any regrets, which was exacerbated further by how he was feeling about his parents. The realisation that they were all effectively living on borrowed time made Rick more confident for a short while. At the end of the day, if he tried something and it all went to bollocks then at least he would have his answer. In June, disappointing answers would have been better than no answers at all because the people he wanted the answers from were dead.

But that was crossing wires.

The point was: Rick was gay. He had known this for a significant amount of time and it had caused him a considerable amount of anguish over the years. He may have been a champion – no, _the_ champion – for minority rights in Thatcher’s bloody Britain but that didn’t mean he wanted to be part of one, himself. It would have been far simpler if all of his talk of fancying girlies and love poems to Felicity Kendal had been genuine. Rick knew what a lot of society thought of gay men and he knew what some people would do to him if they ever found out. Rick didn’t want that. _He really didn’t want that._

Yet with nothing left to lose as far as he could see, he just couldn’t find it within himself to care anymore. Not as much as he had done previously, anyway. He was an anarchist, wasn’t he? Why should he care about anything ever? What, was he going to live out the rest of his days alone, constantly thought of as some pathetic virgin whom no woman would touch with a ten-foot barge pole? Probably. But, then again, perhaps he didn’t have to. Certain people already thought he was poofy; why not throw open the closet door to them for good?

It was quite embarrassing to think about – as Rick often had over the last six months when Vyvyan hadn’t realised he was staring at him – but Rick’s pull to the punk had started fairly early on. It had definitely come about before Christmas 1981, which had been during their first year as students together. Rick had always been a sensitive child… or oversensitive, as most of his peers and teachers had described him. It stood to reason that he would fall for people quickly. Whenever he had in the past, however, it had made sense. Well, as much sense as falling for boys could. Rick had thought his type were deep thinkers and artists and freedom fighters – not aggressive metal head punks who tried to kill him three times a week. When the crush didn’t fade, Rick knew he was in trouble.

“What do you want, poof?”

The clock had already struck midnight by the time Rick had actually worked up the courage to approach Vyvyan with the truth. He could still remember the way his heart had echoed in his chest, so loudly that he was surprised no one else could hear it. Vyvyan sounded groggy – he _had_ been in bed, to be fair – and terse. Was there any way he could have already known? Rick hadn’t been about to back down now but that didn’t make doing what he had set out to do any easier.

“I… I want to talk to you.”

The nerves in his voice must have intrigued the punk for he sat up and eyed him expectantly.

“What?” Rick had heard him ask, still not impressed.

“Yes… I-I need to tell you something, Vyvyan, so just listen up, al-alright?”

This had been the point at which Vyvyan had stood up and made things ten times harder. Rick was ever so slightly taller than him but this didn’t matter when the punk was glaring at him through the darkness, only a few inches away.

“Go on, then,” he had urged impatiently, “I was _trying_ to sleep.”

Rick’s head had automatically nodded apologetically. A sure sign if there ever was one that not all was as it seemed.

“Right. Well, you know how… how… for instance: just then, right – just then you called me a poof, didn’t you?” he had asked, desperately stumbling over how he was going to get this out.

“Mhm.”

“Well, the thing is… and I’m only telling you this now because… because we almost _died_ , Vyvyan, and I could die tomorrow for all I know. The thing is-”

“You _are_ a poof?”

That wasn’t how it was meant to go. Why was Vyvyan confessing for Rick? The familiar anger the poet found bubbling within him whenever the two of them fought had began to stir at this… this act of theft! How blummin’ well dare he!?

“Wh- _you don’t get to say it!_ That was supposed to be mine, Vyvyan!”

Honestly, Rick had felt betrayed. He wasn’t sure why; it wasn’t as if Vyvyan hadn’t done far worse things to him in the past. It wasn’t as if he had even been expecting this conversation to go down well. Maybe it was the adrenaline. He had just hoped he wouldn’t lose it completely and cry – crying in front of Vyvyan then would have been intolerable – he had already cried enough.

“Shut up, Rick! We’re not the only people here, you know – this is a hospital!” Vyvyan had quickly snapped back at him, almost chastising in tone and reminding him strongly that such a miserable environment may someday be the workplace of this mad individual.

If there truly was no god.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter now,” Rick had made an impulsive decision to use sulking as a guard and exit, “You’ve guessed my big bloody secret! Three cheers for you! Have a pleasant evening!”

Everything might have ended there had Vyvyan not grabbed Rick’s arm and prevented him from marching off in a strop. Retrospectively, Rick was _very_ glad that the punk had stopped him… not that he had ever told him this.

“God, everything’s always got to be _all about you_ , hasn’t it? Your big bloody secret! Your profound, _poofy_ individuality! You’re the only one who’s _ever_ felt like this, aren’t you, Rick?” Vyvyan had challenged him.

They were both getting too loud for their surroundings by this point but neither seemed to care. Rick was positively fuming at the allegations being thrown around!

“And just what _exactly_ are you implying by that!?”

“I’m not _implying_ anything, snotty-face! I’m telling you that you only ever think about yourself-”

“That’s not true…”

“Yes, it is! Because if you’d ever bothered to look around you then you’d have realised that you’re not the only one here with dirty bloody secrets!”

Rick’s anger had all but fizzled away after this admission. Though he had feared that the punk was about to reveal a string of murders he had committed before adding Rick to his list, there was still a small part of him that had foolishly hoped. Or not so foolishly.

“What do you mean, Vyvyan?” he had asked more softly.

He didn’t want to hear the answer because he knew it would shatter everything. That said, he couldn’t see himself leaving the punk’s bedside if he didn’t get one. Vyvyan’s breathing was harsh.

“I mean that it’s not just you who’s been thinking about stuff he might never have had the chance to do if we’d died in that crash.”

“S-stuff?”

“Oh, bloody hell! Do I really have to spell it out for you!?”

Hearing the borderline hysteria in Vyvyan’s voice had finally battered the truth into Rick’s skull. His mind went blank for at least five seconds. Holy Cliff! Then he returned the favour.

_“You’re a poof too!?”_

In the end, Rick hadn’t had to tell Vyvyan about his big, girly crush on him. At least, not that night. All the noise the two of them had made with their arguing had unfortunately woken up a few of the other patients on the ward, including Mike and Neil. Neither one of them had been disturbed or even remotely surprised by their housemates’ suddenly declared poofiness. In all honesty, that was probably for the best; clearly Rick and Vyvyan weren’t very good at keeping things quiet. As for the other patients, they were mainly elderly people who could be quite easily persuaded that everything they had seen had been a confused, sickness-induced dream.

And that was that.

***

Rick’s problem six months later wasn’t that he had somehow gotten himself a boyfriend and that this boyfriend was Vyvyan. It was… well…

_What the ruddy heck would his parents make of Vyvyan Basterd!?_

It wasn’t that Rick would have changed things from how they currently were if his parents had reacted… well, reactionarily. Of course not! He didn’t give into fascism or unliberated sexual politics! Rick _liked_ what he had with the punk; he really did. He was pretty sure Vyvyan liked it too, truth be told. It was simply that whenever Rick thought about it properly – when he wasn’t being distracted by Channel 4 or Mike and Neil or the intolerable amount of work he was constantly bowed down with these days thanks to the summer’s fabulous let-down results or even by the punk himself and all the _glorious_ things he could do with that mouth of his – Rick’s stomach felt uneasy and his chest tightened. He didn’t know what his parents would make of him having a boyfriend, especially a boyfriend like Vyvyan. He never would know.

And sometimes this made him so, _so_ sad. Sometimes angry, but then anger was often a front for more sadness.

Vyvyan had noticed. Of course he had, the observant bastard.

He noticed when Rick soured at the mention of Christmas festivities and he noticed when Rick would sit, curled up, on the sofa for hours without speaking. Without even writing. The telly might have been on in these instances but Rick wasn’t watching it. He was barely even aware of whether Vyvyan sat down next to him, only faintly registering any physical contact the punk chose to make with him. The two weren’t brilliant at discussing their feelings – despite Rick preaching in favour of it nonstop when he was in a good mood. Noticeably, these negative episodes were increasing as the big day drove nearer. Vyvyan would sometimes try and engage him in conversation: rather pointless drivel that was obviously intended to distract from the root of what was wrong but, depending on the circumstances, Rick didn’t mind cooperating. He went along. He knew that he was making the others concerned; it was quite something when the most violent member of the house tread gently around you to avoid upset. It made Rick want to scream. Why couldn’t things just get better!?

He had a _boyfriend!_ He had a _home!_ Christmas would be over soon and every ruddy person in the country would go back to their boring lives instead of pretending everything was wonderful when it wasn’t! _It wasn’t._ Then he could be content, couldn’t he? He just needed the 25th over with and the weight would be lifted, wouldn’t it? _Wouldn’t it!?_

No. And _that_ was Rick’s problem.

While he could blame his first Christmas with his parents in the ground for his moodiness to an extent, he was truly struggling to carry on whilst the issue of what his parents would have made of he and his boyfriend was taking over his thoughts. Did this mean he and Vyvyan wouldn’t last? Was his predicament going to ruin it? It was so unfair! Why did his parents have to die before he had been bold enough to ask them for their views on homosexuality? So many regrets…

He was scared of Vyvyan slipping away but at the same time indifferent to it. If the poet had been dumped the next day with nothing so much as a two fingered salute he was ashamed to admit that the overwhelming emotion he would feel would be _relief._ Should he be letting what his parents may or may not have approved of colour his subconscious so heavily? No, of course not! He had already been over this. If they were alive, he would have told them exactly where they could stick it – maybe, if he was feeling especially rebellious – but they weren’t and so with each passing minute their feelings on Rick’s life seemed to gain more and more holiness.

What the _blummin’ flip_ would they think!?

Rick’s internal obsession came to a crescendo when he found himself bursting into tears in the bathroom on Christmas eve morning. He had been getting ready, radio on the sink blazing away with Band Aid’s _Do They Know It’s Christmas?_ for probably the seventh time that hour. Rick wouldn’t have minded but the song had been out for weeks now. Wasn’t it time to tone it down a bit?

_There’s a world outside your window  
And it’s a world of dread and fear_

It was Christmas tomorrow, so what? It would be Rick’s birthday in several months but he wasn’t demanding everyone sing him happy birthday in the build up.

_Where the only water flowing  
Is the bitter sting of tears_

The lyrics just struck the wrong chord with the poet, that was all. Of course, he was perfectly in favour of raising money for the poor kiddies in Africa with no food or water – if he had been a famous singer than he was sure he would have come up with the idea for Band Aid years ago. In fact, it had probably been Cliff’s idea but he had been kind enough to let Bob Geldof and Midge Ure take the credit. That was how on trend he was. However, well-intended as Rick could agree the song was, his mind couldn’t help but twist the lyrics to remind him of that all-encompassing personal travesty.

_And the Christmas bells that ring there  
Are the clanging chimes of doom_

The church bells at his parents’ funeral were certainly comparable with doom. If Vyvyan hadn’t been there then Rick wasn’t sure _what_ he would have done. He gript the sink at the memory. _Oh no._

_Well tonight thank god it’s them  
Instead of you_

That was it. Suddenly, the bathroom door exploded open and Rick was engulfed in Vyvyan’s arms. He didn’t realise he was sobbing so violently until his body’s shaking caused him to rub against the scarring along Vyvyan’s forearm; it had a very distinctive feel. Rick tried to get himself together. This was ridiculous!

Somehow, Vyvyan had known to turn the radio off. He brought Rick to the floor and held him in silence, like a protective dog guards a bone… or something more romantic than that. Rick wasn’t in the state for poetry. He snuggled closer to the warmth of the punk’s chest as his breathing slowly returned to normal. Vyvyan’s jaw was resting on top of his head and he could feel it clenching.

“Th-thanks,” Rick eventually choked out.

He was tired of feeling like this.

Vyvyan unclenched his chin and kissed the top of the poet’s head, quite a soppy gesture for him. Rick smiled despite it all. The punk cleared his throat.

“’S alright,” he replied in the quieter voice Rick had only heard him use a few times, including whenever something like this happened, “I’m sorry. I’m… I’m not much use, I suppose.”

A forced laugh.

Rick shook his head more out of duty than sincerity.

“It’s just Christmas, that’s all,” he lied, as he had done the last time, “I’ll feel better soon, Vyv.”

Vyvyan nodded. Whether or not he believed Rick was another matter. Still, things were how they were.

***

The rest of the day was spent how most of their recent days had been spent: doing absolutely nothing. Scumbag was closed for the holidays and Rick wasn’t ever in the mood to write one of the essays he had been set so he figured the hours were better wasted lying against his boyfriend sleepily and letting him watch whatever counted as youth entertainment. Occasionally, Neil would wander in with another dusty ornament he had found god knows where to hang on their ugly, little tree but he was their only interruption.

“Look, it’s that git with the stupid hair who looks just like you!” Vyvyan piped up gleefully at about 3:30pm.

Rick opened his eyes – he had been dozing – and immediately glared at the screen.

“I’ve told you before, that _fascist_ looks nothing like me!” he protested, a little bit of his fire coming back.

Vyvyan was grinning his wicked grin; he always did know how to get Rick going. The poet glared at him somewhat endearingly.

“And I’ve told you before that he does! Look-” Vyvyan pointed at where the prick’s name was flashing up on the screen beneath his irritating face, “- _Richie Rich_. You even share the same first name!”

Rick sat up and stretched.

“Not necessarily, Vyvyan,” he told him with a knowing wag of the finger.

“What other name apart from Richard can Rick and Richie possibly come from, poof?” Vyvyan questioned, his face scrunching up in that confused way Rick secretly found very cute.

“Well, there’s…”

 _Oh, dammit._ There weren’t any other names, were there? That was another hole he had successfully talked himself into!

“Yes?” Vyvyan prompted, his confusion giving way to smugness.

“There’s… there’s… umm… you know… Rick… olas?”

Vyvyan barked out a laugh at his boyfriend’s expense.

“Rickolas?” he repeated.

Rick nodded seriously for this was actually very serious business. The two of them had a short-lived staring match, short-lived because all Vyvyan had to do was mutter _“Rickolas”_ again for both of them to start tittering.

“Alright, alright! We’re probably both called Richard! Satisfied?” Rick gave in.

He was trying to sound stern but his amusement was evident. Vyvyan smirked victoriously.

“Unless _you’re_ the one called Rickolas,” he suggested.

Rick flicked his nose ring, which led to the punk jumping on top of him.

“Remember! Me: Richie Rich! From 9am on Christmas day-” the telly wittered on with itself.

“Who gave that bastard a slot?” Vyvyan growled between nipping Rick’s ear and sucking the spot he knew was most sensitive on his neck.

“Fuck me if I know,” Rick answered, not really thinking his words through.

“That can be arranged,” Vyvyan chuckled.

Rick was just about to protest that shouldn’t they at least go upstairs first when the front door opened.

“4:00, enter Mike the Cool Person with four entirely legally acquired tickets. Vyv? Vyv, where are- oh, there you are. I’ve got your tickets; you owe me £20.”

Mike showed no sign of registering the fact that one of his housemates was presumably about to undress another on the sofa in their shared drawing room yet Rick’s face still blossomed bright red.

“Vyvyan! Get off!” he yelped.

The punk obliged and bounded over to Mike, leaving Rick to straighten out his crumpled clothes. _Such chivalry._ Rick watched a collection of notes exchange hands and frowned.

“And you’re sure they’ll get us in, Michael?” Vyvyan asked him.

“Vyv, are my eyes brown?” he returned.

“I don’t know,” Vyvyan confessed, “You’ve got your shades on.”

The cool person chuckled, shaking his head.

“They’re pucker, Vyv, they’ll get us in,” he promised, patting him on the back and walking off into the kitchen. His gaze strayed to the suspicious looking poet. “Alright, Rick?”

“Fine, thank you, Mike,” Rick responded rather stiffly.

He stalked over to Vyvyan and placed his hands on his hips pompously.

“And just what are these _so-called tickets_ for, young man?” he demanded.

“They’re concert tickets,” Vyvyan told him casually.

Rick frowned again.

“A concert? When?”

Now Vyvyan looked sheepish. He scratched the back of his neck and sighed.

“I – umm – wanted to surprise you, you see… I know you’ve been down a lot recently…”

Rick blushed furiously once more as if this was a secret that Mike wasn’t aware of. Neil wandered in from the garden with his hands full of mud.

“Hello, everyone,” he greeted them.

No one even glanced his way.

“So I found this joke of a heavy metal band-”

_“Joke of a heavy metal band!?”_

“-who’re doing a concert tomorrow-”

_“Tomorrow!?”_

“-and got Mike to get us in somehow… since… well… since it was late notice…”

Under different circumstances, Rick may have found his boyfriend’s awkwardness sweet or lauded it over him for all eternity. Unfortunately, his temper prevented him from enjoying it. He couldn’t believe this!

“But tomorrow’s _Christmas!_ ” he reminded the punk angrily.

“I know none of you care or anything but, like, I found something totally groovy in the garden,” Neil spoke up.

“Exactly! There might not be anyone else there!” Vyvyan pointed out, with the gall to sound excited.

“It’s a good deal, Ricky,” Mike agreed from the kitchen table.

“I don’t care!” Rick snapped, “People don’t go to concerts on Christmas!”

“Why not?” Vyvyan pushed, “We were only gonna lounge around the house until we got so mind-numbingly bored that we’d actually tune into your doppelgänger and his criminally unfunny jokes!”

There was the sound of wet earth slopping into a ceramic bowl.

“Rick has a doppelgänger?” Neil asked.

“Oh, well that’s _very_ nice, isn’t it?” Rick fumed, “Sorry my company isn’t enough for you, Vyvyan!”

The punk groaned.

“That’s not what I meant and you bloody well know it!” he argued.

“Isn’t it?” Rick spat, because he couldn’t think of a better retort.

This was all getting extraordinarily out of hand. Rick hadn’t wanted to do anything on Christmas apart from _survive the day_ and now he was going to have to pretend to enjoy live music from a band Vyvyan didn’t even think were very good. Had he forgotten what Rick’s reaction had been to something as harmless as Band Aid!? Why was he trying to push him out into the cruel, nasty world when Rick couldn’t even handle that!? He really was dating a psychopath!

The poet was about to make a tremendously witty and sarcastic remark before storming up to his room to listen to Cliff and sulk when there was a sharp knock at the door. Three different voice boxes were all poised on calling out for the hippie amongst them to go and answer it when the old door creaked tiredly and fell into the hallway.

“Blummin’ flip!” Rick shrieked.

“I bet I know who’ll be fixing that later…” came Neil’s unanswered lament.

“Hello,” a cheerful Brummie-esq voice, one that was totally oblivious to the wreckage just caused, called out from the front step.

Rick’s blood ran cold. Oh no. Not _him._ Not now. He peeped around the doorframe and came face to face with a blue anorak.

“My name’s Kevin Turvey, pleased to meet you.”

Just _brilliant._

No one heard what Rick grumbled at the floor and this was for good reason – it was so foul he doubted even Channel 4 would find it acceptable. He looked up into the typically dazed face of the annoying sod before him and sighed.

“Yes, Kevin, I know. We’re cousins.”

The flame of recognition lit itself in Kevin’s eyes.

“Rick! I thought you lived here! Not right here, of course, but somewhere in North London. In a house, obviously. I mean, people can’t live on pavements in the middle of winter, can they? That would be stupid,” he rambled, snorting at the end.

Ah yes – was that a migraine Rick had coming on?

“Who is it, Rick?” Neil asked from inside.

Rick turned back to his housemates and shot them all venomous glares.

“Kevin. Please. Come. In.” His teeth ground with each word.

Still oblivious to anything that could possibly be wrong, Kevin stepped over the threshold and nodded at the three tenants watching him.

“Hello.”

“This is my cousin, Kevin,” Rick introduced him reluctantly, rolling his eyes at Neil’s friendly wave and Kevin’s reciprocation, “Kevin, these are the people I live with. Michael, Neil and-”

Vyvyan raised his eyebrows at him, daring him. Well, Rick wasn’t going to stand for it!

“-and Vyvyan,” he finished coolly, “You might be wondering what Vyvyan’s doing with a _girl’s_ name.”

Kevin shrugged.

“Not especially, no, if I’m honest,” he admitted, “I’m more interested in that muddy bowl over there. Where did the mud come from? Why is it indoors? Can we expect more households to find themselves with muddy bowls in their kitchens?”

Neil perked up suddenly and picked up the bowl.

“Oh! I can answer that!” he told him.

“Really?” Kevin asked, already ditching Rick for the hippie.

Mike must have found Rick’s silent outrage at this injustice funny because he started laughing into the newspaper he had mysteriously just produced from nowhere. Rick, not at liberty to insult the cool person but peeved nonetheless, decided Vyvyan was a worthy target for his vitriol. All things considered sensibly and maturely, everything wrong with the world could be blamed on Vyvyan. Definitely.

“I’m sleeping in my own room tonight,” he nigh on hissed at him.

“Suit yourself,” Vyvyan muttered back, nonplussed.

His apparent neutrality would have made Rick’s stomach churn had he not noticed the look in Vyvyan’s eyes: cagey, wounded. Rick had hurt him.

Good! It was about time someone else started feeling bad around here! Enough was enough.

“Kevin!” he called over.

Against all the odds, Kevin was engaged in a conversation with Neil, presumably about the bowl of mud. Was the hippie smiling? Dear, oh dear.

“So, the earth started talking to you, you say?” Kevin questioned with a look of true interest.

Wait… where had he got that ruddy microphone from!?

“Just this particular bit, yeah,” Neil confirmed into the mic.

“Isn’t the ground sophisticated down south! It’s great!” Kevin joked.

“Shut up, Neil!” Rick snapped, “Kevin, I don’t mean to _bother_ you or anything but why are you here? Shouldn’t you be off in Brummieland with that friend of yours?”

Kevin slipped the microphone back into the depths of his blue anorak and shook his head.

“I’m not a Brummie, Rick, I’m from Redditch. I suppose you could say that Redditch, like Birmingham, is in the midlands and therefore it’s in the general Brummie area but there is a difference. Not a huge one but it is there,” he explained earnestly.

“You’re right, man,” Neil agreed, “It’s like how people, right, always just assume I’m from London but they’re never interested in the specifics. London’s quite a big place-”

Rick couldn’t take this.

“Yes, yes, yes – _but_ _why are you here?”_ he repeated in exasperation.

“I’m investigating,” Kevin revealed casually, “Well, I suppose I’m also walking down streets, eating, drinking, breathing in air… and breathing it back out again. General stuff, y’know.” He paused for a moment and then smiled. “Merry Christmas, by the way. It’s good you’ve got friends around you after your parents-”

“Investigating what?” Rick interrupted, not liking the way his heart had started thumping in his ears.

“Oh, right - what Christmas means to people. It’s the season for it, after all.”

Neil, Mike and Vyvyan made murmurs of agreement. Rick rubbed his temples. Of course. _Of ruddy course._ Count on his cousin to waste his energy – not to mention Rick’s time – doing something as pointless as this.

“And you had to leave Redditch or wherever to do this because?”

“Redditch’s quite small, I thought I’d make this investigation nationwide.”

 _“Nationwide!?”_ Rick scoffed, “I’ll help you out, alright? Would you like to know what Christmas means to me? Right here? Now?”

Kevin seemed surprised but nodded nonetheless. He didn’t notice the wary looks of the other three, or perhaps he simply didn’t understand why they were wary.

“Of course, Rick.”

“Good!” the poet declared, marching over to his cousin and snatching the microphone from the pocket it had been stored in, “I think Christmas is a blummin’ great waste of time – and do you know why? Because it’s orchestrated by _fascists_ who want everyone to spend lots of money until all the working classes can’t afford to eat and have to… well, eat each other!” He sneered, making his way back towards Vyvyan in the hall and inadvertently dragging Kevin with him. “We all pretend we’re so _happy_ , don’t we? Oh, look everyone, aren’t I having a glorious Christmastime!? Why, it’s the most jolly time of the year! Ha ha ha! Let’s ignore all the sorrow and the hurt because it’s Christmas and therefore none of that matters!”

Vyvyan had the cheek to try and reach out and grab the microphone then but Rick was quicker and dodged. He glared daggers at the punk, who was looking equally displeased, before sniffing with more emotion than intended.

“Stupid, bloody holiday…” he continued, “It’s a hoax. Did you know that? _A hoax!_ The biggest ruddy hoax since Jesus was born-”

“Uh… Rick, actually-”

“Shut _up_ , Neil! I don’t care! I just don’t _bloody_ care, alright? Kevin – you wanted to know what Christmas means to me? Well, I think it’s _humbug!_ ”

With that, Rick dropped the mic and ran up the stairs as fast as he was physically able. It took all his willpower not to turn back and check to see the reaction. In fact, if he had, he would have witnessed a shocked Kevin Turvey pick up the microphone and comment on how he didn’t know Rick was so passionate on the subject. Thoroughly frustrated though Vyvyan was, he wouldn’t go up to check on the poet for the rest of the day; Mike reckoned they had had enough conflict for Christmas eve.

Much to Rick’s probable chagrin – again, had he known – was Neil’s kind invitation that Kevin stay for a bit, which would eventually turn into him staying the night. It wasn’t Neil’s fault that he wanted to keep around the only person who had paid him any attention.

***

It was hours later when anything of note happened.

Rick had been lying on his bed with Cliff singing in the background; hot tears that dried to cold marks running down his cheeks. He was trying to focus on the music so the bad thoughts stayed away. He didn’t regret his outburst – oh no, Rick had far bigger things to regret than yet another temper tantrum. Christmas would be here in a short while and he wanted to die.

Not literally. Although, at least then he wouldn’t have to deal with this mess of a life he had. He wanted out. Maybe he should run away before morning.

But to where?

His chest ached longingly. Worrying, really, because he thought he had gotten past _that_ kind of grief months ago. Apparently not.

_I’ve had nothing but bad luck  
Since the day I saw the cat at my door…_

Rick didn’t want to think about Vyvyan. Clearly, their relationship was petering out and there was nothing either of them could do. He dared himself to picture his future without the punk in it and was faintly shocked when his eyes filled with tears again. Who was he kidding? Vyvyan meant _a lot_ to him despite his bastardly ways and he couldn’t just go on as if they had never even met! Maybe in another life… another set of circumstances where Rick knew the answer to the question he could never ask his parents… maybe then everything would have worked out fine. But that couldn’t be this life.

The poet rolled over on to his stomach and fisted his pillow.

_Beware the devil woman  
She’s gonna- she’s gonna- she’s gonna-_

“Ugh…”

His record player was acting up again; this cheap one he had bought to replace the one from his parents never was as reliable. Begrudgingly, Rick stood to right whatever was wrong with it but found that the moment his feet touched the wooden flooring, the song carried on.

_She’s gonna get you_

He rolled his eyes and sat down, about to lie back when the record started skipping once more.

_She’s just a dev- dev- dev-_

Up he got again; the record began playing smoothly.

_She’s just a devil woman  
With evil on her mind_

“I wish you’d make up _your_ mind, matey!” Rick grumbled, falling into the age-old trap of treating an inanimate object like a person.

_Beware the dev- dev- dev-_

“I didn’t even sit down this time!” he huffed.

There might have been something wrong with the track or the record itself. To be fair, Rick had listened to all of Cliff’s stuff an immeasurable number of times. He crossed the room, ready to find another album to put on when the song skipped _forwards_.

_She’s gonna get you from behind_

“HELLO, SPOT FACE!”

“BLOODY HE-“

“Shh! They’ll all find out you’re a nutter!”

A cold, vaguely grass scented hand had been roughly clamped over Rick’s mouth – it was almost a slap, really. His gaze wandered along the green-clad arm and up to the manic face, framed with untameable, orange hair. What was _he_ doing here!? The record stopped playing.

“Eugh! Spot face, I thought _surely_ you’d be a bit less spotty by now!” the new individual complained, “Do you promise not to shout?”

Rick nodded and the hand was removed. His visitor performed an exaggerated curtsy.

“Ta-dah! Did you miss me?” he asked.

Rick blinked slowly.

“Fred?” he eventually said.

Fred sighed overdramatically and flicked Rick’s forehead.

“University hasn’t made you any smarter then? Ha! I won our bet!” he cheered, “Yes, it’s me: Drop Dead Fred. Imaginary friend extraordinaire, at your service!”

Rick was struggling for words; he hadn’t seen Fred since the summer of 1981, right before he started at Scumbag College. Why was he back? Oh god, he wasn’t going to “spice things up” again, was he? Rick didn’t think the shared house could survive “spicing up”.

Fred was grinning at him expectantly.

“ _Come on!_ Aren’t you going to say _anything_ , ickle Rickle? You’ve not turned all _boring_ again, have you?” he groaned impatiently.

“You bastard, I thought we agreed you’d never call me that again!” Rick whisper-yelled indignantly.

Fred’s grin only grew.

“Brilliant! You’re still in there!” he enthused, leaping over to sit cross-legged on Rick’s bed, “Tell me, spot face… do you still go by that name you thought up?”

“What name?” Rick asked edgily, being deliberately obtuse.

Fred rolled his eyes.

“You know! The really _girly_ one!”

“The People’s Poet is not a girly name!” Rick spluttered.

He sat down opposite the imaginary friend on the bed and pulled his knees up under his chin, glaring petulantly.

“There’s hope for you yet then – good,” Fred observed. He leant forwards and clasped his hands together like a pseudo intellectual, suddenly getting serious. “You remember why I came to you last time… right, spot face?” he queried.

“Because I didn’t know how the world worked,” Rick offered.

It still made him cringe to think about how crawly bumlick he had been prior to Fred’s… visitation. Lord knew who Rick would have been today if his worldview hadn’t been drastically broadened over that summer! He shuddered to consider it! His old imaginary friend, on the other hand, was scoffing – a light humoured scoff, mind, not a scoff of derision like the ones Rick was so fond of dishing out.

“Rick, you _still_ don’t know how the world works,” Fred told him, “But if I helped you think about things outside your own pretty, little head then that’s great! Means I did my job properly.” He bopped Rick on the head as he said this, which the poet didn’t exactly love but wasn’t about to complain over either. Fred smiled. “Really, do you know why I came?”

Rick sighed into the gap between his knees. He did.

“Because… I wasn’t… I wasn’t very happy. That’s why.”

Fred nodded.

“Hit the nail bang on the head, spot face,” he congratulated him.

“Is that why you’re back again now?” Rick asked quietly.

“Hmm… yes and no,” Fred replied, pulling a face, “Things are different to last time.”

His eyes twinged. Not this _again!_ Rick rubbed stubbornly at them and was grateful when Fred didn’t comment on it.

“Well, yes, my parents have died,” he deadpanned.

“I heard,” Fred replied gently, “But that’s not all.”

 _“That’s not all!?”_ Rick choked out, “How dare you.”

He had to bury his head then to prevent Fred from seeing him cry. The bedsheets ruffled and he became aware of a dip in the mattress closer to where he was sat.

“I also heard about that punk you’re seeing… Viviola or something,” Fred continued.

“V-Vyvyan,” Rick corrected him instinctively, “His name is Vyvyan.”

There was a tap on his knee.

“Whatever he’s called, he wasn’t around last time,” Fred noted, “He must be pretty disgusting if he’s going out with _you!_ ”

This garnered a small chuckle from Rick because it was true. Fred began shaking him violently.

“What _? What!?_ ”

“Spot face – do you do it like the pigeons!?” he gasped, “Your face! You _do_ , don’t you!?”

Rick swatted him away.

“Of course we don’t do it like that!” he insisted.

Fred raised an eyebrow in a manner that suggested that he didn’t believe him. Honestly, did no one ever teach imaginary friends about the birds and the bees? Or the… bees and the bees? Fred stood up and hauled Rick to his feet.

“Gross! I think I’m going to be sick _all over_ you!” he warned him, already fake-retching.

“You blummin’ well are not, mister!” Rick warned him back.

Such sass brought a smirk to Fred’s face. He stopped attempting to empty his stomach and settled for smearing a bogey across Rick’s cheek.

_“Eugh!”_

“What’s stopping you from talking to Vyvnia then, spot face?” the imaginary friend chirped on as if nothing had happened, “Maybe he can help.”

“I doubt it,” Rick muttered bitterly, wiping away the unwanted snot, “Besides, this isn’t about _Vyvyan_ , it’s about… them.”

Fred frowned at him.

“But they’re dead and you’re alive.”

“Exactly!”

Bloody hell! Fred didn’t half know how to get under Rick’s skin! He had forgotten how annoying he could be; there was a reason Rick had wanted to be alone. Probably sensing this wasn’t going to end well if he persisted, Fred patted Rick’s left shoulder.

“This is getting far too serious, spot face,” he informed him. His head jerked to the right momentarily, as if he had heard something that Rick couldn’t. He grinned. “I’ve got an appointment to blow up a Christmas dinner in five minutes.”

“But-”

“Don’t worry, Drop Dead Fred never lets a charge down!” he reassured him rather proudly, “I’ve set something up for you tonight – you’ll see…”

Fred appeared to be getting ready to leave: he had started practising goofy faces in Rick’s mirror and ruffling his hair into further unkemptness. The poet felt a jolt of panic.

“What do you mean?” he asked him nervously.

“Just remember what I told you about talking to Violin, okay?”

Rick rolled his eyes at Fred’s persistence.

“Fred?”

“Mhm?”

“Will… will I see you again after this?”

It was worth knowing, after all.

“I certainly hope not! The aim is for you to be able to rely on _yourself_ , not me,” Fred told him honestly. He turned away from the mirror to find his ex-charge in deep distress. “Hey, it’s alright, spot face.” He held out his pinky. “I promise.”

Rick swallowed, trying to ignore the churning in his stomach as he locked pinkies with his old imaginary friend.

“Oh, and one last thing!” Fred added.

“Yes?”

_“MERRY CHRISTMAS, RICKOLAS!”_

There was the sound of a jack-in-the-box winding up incredibly fast and then Drop Dead Fred was gone. Rick felt his face heat up – like it had done an unknown number of times in the last day, alone – as he climbed back into bed. How in Cliff’s name did Fred know about that? Had he been _listening!?_ The bastard!

Crucially, he knew as he burrowed down inside his filthy sheets, he could never hate Fred. Not at all. Never. Rick sighed, feeling his eyes droop closed.

Well, if something was supposed to be happening tonight, the person running it could ruddy well wake Rick up themselves!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eek! Rick's being a bit of a bastard... just for a change! Main points I'd like to make here are:
> 
> *Sorry. :/  
> *I wonder who the joke of a heavy metal band are?  
> *Kevin and Neil getting along was something I didn't expect to write but you can't change my mind now.  
> *Also Kevin is difficult to write for.  
> *I kinda wanna write an offshoot about Rick and Fred in the summer of 1981 but NOT YET!
> 
> Thanks for reading part 1! :)
> 
> *A segment of this is now available in the tenth issue of the TYO fanzine 'Scumbag Monthly'.*


	2. Stave 2: The First of the Three Poltergoosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, again!  
> Ideally, this fic would be done and dusted by now but college and life and stuff made that pretty impossible so I guess you're gonna have to have Christmas vibes into the new year. New decade, too! Exciting? Anyway, this one is ridiculously long and quite possibly garbage. I'm going to check for mistakes properly at a later date because unfortunately college compels me to write boring essays. :( I've been looking forward to writing this part for a while, it contains some familiar faces...  
> I hope you enjoy!

At 1:00am, a strange scent of over-cooked lentils wafted into Rick’s bedroom. This wouldn’t have been quite enough to wake him on its own – the shared house was home to all manner of grotesque smells on any given day – but it was promptly followed by an annoying, flickering light. Rick groaned and pulled his covers up over his face in futile resistance. Dammit, Fred! What was he about to be put through _now_?

“Hey,” a depressingly familiar voice called out from somewhere next to Rick’s bed, “Rick, man, you’ve gotta get up, okay?”

Neil. Great _._

“Piss off, hippie!” Rick snapped from underneath the sheets, snuggling down deeper into the one warm spot.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, man,” Neil told him apologetically.

All of a sudden, the bedsheets were whipped clean off the bed and the cold air present in any building whose owners don’t pay its gas bills hit Rick like an icy wave. He shot up immediately, wiping the sleep from his eyes and ready to give Neil a ruddy good telling off when his voice died in his throat and his legs buckled beneath him.

 _“What in the name of Cliff Richard!?”_ he squeaked rather pathetically.

The figure before him – who bore a striking resemblance to Neil, no denying it – looked like a human torch! They were dressed in a spotlessly white robe, which proved beyond any reasonable doubt that this _wasn’t_ Neil. Their hair, if indeed it _was_ hair, floated freely upwards as though gravity did not exist. Rick couldn’t tell if the colour matched Neil’s – the bloody doo was alight! As if the very strands of it were made of candle flame! However, peculiar as this all may sound, none of it was as disconcerting as their six pairs of arms. _Six_ _!_

The wannabe Neil sighed the sigh of a weary soul.

“Cliff Richard has, like, nothing to do with this,” they spoke sincerely, “Drop Dead Fred sent me, man.”

Rick scrambled hastily to his feet and took a step back so that he was out of reach of the twelve arms and twelve hands.

“Fred?” he repeated, “If you were sent by Fred then how come you look like… like _that_! I thought most imaginary friends went to kids! You look _hideous_ – I bet they get nightmares thanks to you, you fascist!”

Another sigh.

“I’m not an imaginary friend,” they revealed with mild annoyance, “I’m a poltergoost, alright? We’re different.”

As if to prove the “difference”, the figure waved all of their arms about simultaneously. Rick, humiliatingly, let out a whimper and backed off again.

“A _p-poltergoost_!?” he stammered, “What’s that? What do you do?”

“Well, we’re all – I guess you could say – unique in our own special ways but _I_ specialise in the past,” they explained, eyes misting over.

“The past?” Rick prompted.

Truth be told, he was getting a little sick of how mysterious this _poltergoost_ was being. It was as if they were deliberately trying to wind the poet up! Maybe their similarities to Neil were internal as well as external. Ruddy heck.

“Yeah, man,” they agreed, appearing to think Rick was beginning to understand, “ _Christmas_ past. I’m the Poltergoost of Christmas Past, although you can also call me the Spirit of Christmas Past, if you want to… just not a ghost. I’m not, like, a dead person and it’s kind of upsetting-”

“Just shut up, Neil! You’re giving me a headache with all of this hippie nonsense!” Rick groaned.

The Poltergoost of Christmas Past furrowed their Neil-like brow at him.

“I’m not Neil, Rick. I know who Neil _is_ , of course, and I think you should really be a lot nicer to him seeing as he’s the only one who does any work around here but me and him aren’t the same person,” they insisted.

“Then why do you look so similar?” Rick questioned, feeling as though he had a valid remark.

“Wow, man, you must be doing worse than Fred thought; Neil doesn’t have six pairs of hands and a flaming head,” the spirit pointed out.

“But… but your _voice_!” Rick insisted.

“What about it? Look, we’re wasting time here. We really need to set off, you know.”

They walked – no, _floated_ – over to the window and opened it more easily than Rick had been able to in over three years. The still colder winter air of the outside world seeped in and caused the poet to shiver and hug himself tightly. The moon shone through the new gap, contrasting with the poltergoost’s fire.

“Wh-where are we going?” Rick asked carefully, suddenly remembering his previous nerves.

The spirit turned back to him and Rick watched with two-thirds wariness and one-third fascination as the flames of their hair danced in the breeze yet didn’t blow out.

“Into the past,” they said as if it were obvious, “You should wrap up if you’re gonna get cold.”

Throughout his sulking-with-Cliff session earlier on, Rick hadn’t actually changed out of his jeans and shirt. His blazer lay on the floor in a messy heap, as if _someone_ had tossed it there rather angrily. Grumbling slightly, he reached for his dressing gown on the back of the door and slipped it on.

“Why should I trust that you were really sent by Fred?”

Suspicion and scepticism were some of Rick’s most inbuilt qualities. This was the kind of situation that no ordinary person would put up with, he reasoned; but, then again, did ordinary people get issued with imaginary friends when they were _eighteen_ years old? Did ordinary people even _believe_ that imaginary friends were more than signs of a descent into madness? Well, Rick wasn’t mad, was he? Not in that sense of the word, anyhow…

“Yeah, man – who else do you think has access to poltergoosts? Humans haven’t heard of us. _You_ hadn’t,” the spirit reminded him with a sigh. They rummaged around within their robe and, just when Rick was about to accuse them of perverse behaviour, they pulled out a green shower cap and a paper note. “Fred gave me this to read out to you if, like, well if something like this happened and you didn’t believe me. He said that you’re stubborn like that.”

Rick bristled with indignation but was prevented from speaking by the spirit’s next words.

“ _‘When something’s not working right, the best thing to do is tear it apart to make it better.’_ That’s all it says. Will you come with me now?”

A memory sparked painfully in Rick’s mind: one of Fred saying those very words to him under tellingly mundane circumstances, perhaps when his father’s car hadn’t started once. Whatever the instigation, Rick knew he had dismissed it as Fred seeking out another opportunity to be destructive. Besides, tearing things couldn’t make them better – if Rick had tried tearing his abysmal A Level results certificates apart then he would have had even less going for him than he did at the time. That said, the metaphor the imaginary friend had so obviously been hinting at struck the poet in a way he hadn’t expected now that he was hearing it for a second time.

 _Tearing things apart_ … but what? His relationship with Vyvyan? Nothing else sprang to mind.

“I’ll come,” Rick muttered solemnly and walked over to the poltergoost.

He trusted Fred.

“Take my hand,” the spirit instructed.

“Which one?”

“Any.”

One of the twelve went to return the note and shower cap to the depths of the white robe. Rick picked another hand and took it reluctantly.

“Why do you have a shower cap with you? I’m not going to help you wash yourself, if that’s what you’re thinking!” he asserted with some horror.

“It’s for putting my candle out with,” the spirit revealed, sounding melancholy, “It’s really heavy.”

“Well, I think you blummin’ well should put it out, matey!” Rick soldiered on, “It can’t be good for you – all that heat. It hurts to look at as well, you know. Is there a way I can leave a complaint? Do you poltergoosts have a customer service review option?”

He squinted at the light, being this close.

“It’s funny,” the spirit remarked, though Rick couldn’t tell what was exactly, “You _all_ say that. I suppose that’s why we have to do this.”

Rick would have asked them to explain just what they meant by that – with no small amount of irritation, of course – but the Poltergoost of Christmas Past chose the next second to jump, without warning, out of the window. Naturally, taking Rick with them. The poet briefly popped out of existence, which silenced him quite effectively.

***

When both he and the spirit rematerialised again, Rick was too freaked out by the horrid sensation of existing, not existing and then existing once more to realise where they were. He let go of the hand he had been holding as though it were infected and yelped. The Poltergoost of Christmas Past didn’t seem phased by this reaction nor indeed the spooky sensation; perhaps they were used to it.

“ _What did you do to me!?_ You tried to _kill_ me, didn’t you!?” Rick wailed.

He had managed to stumble his way around a plush-looking, deep red armchair and sofa, not noticing that one of his feet were currently protruding from the side of the latter object as if it was some sort of façade. The spirit sighed for the umpteenth time.

“Don’t you recognise where we are, man?” they asked.

Rick looked around frantically and his eyes widened.

“Yes, but- HANG ON A RUDDY MINUTE!” he all but screamed, “Why are we here!? This place was sold months ago! I shouldn’t be here – I _don’t want_ to be here!”

The home of the late Pratts was ever so immaculate, as it always had been in the twenty-one years Rick had known it. They were in the drawing room and it was somehow early morning – as evidenced by the presence of the cushioned furniture and the dim lighting sneaking through the drawn curtains – that much was clear. What made absolutely no sense was the fact that the armchair and sofa, not to mention the dainty ornaments on top of the fireplace _and_ the wooden coffee table with its bowl of fruit _and_ the embroidered rug on the floor, belonged to his parents. Or, rather, _had_ belonged to them. What was it all still doing here? Rick could recall with some discomforting clarity the times not so long ago when his wretched extended family had swooped in to claim much of this for themselves or for auction. The Turveys were about the only relatives who had held themselves back from this process, something Rick could now see had maybe been done out of respect.

Or maybe Kevin had just been busy _investigating_ something.

“All of this stuff…”

Rick was wholly confused. He found himself turning to the spirit for answers, despite his general, Neil-fuelled dislike of them thus far.

“Check out the calendar,” they suggested calmly, pointing to where the named item was positioned on the coffee table.

There was something deeply wrong; Rick could feel it in his gut. It was a sinking dread, the impossible to know knowledge that the terrible was about to occur. He crossed from the sofa and armchair to peer at the calendar in the relative darkness that surrounded them – barring the poltergoost’s flame – and swallowed thickly.

 _December 1969._ That was fifteen blummin’ years ago!

“This has to be some sort of a mistake, surely,” Rick reasoned, suddenly more afraid that he had ever been before.

“Why would it be a mistake? I told you, man: _I’m the Poltergoost of Christmas Past_. Did you, like, think I was joking?” the spirit scoffed.

“I just didn’t think we were going to work some hippie time travel voodoo, that’s all!” Rick rebuked, “You could have been taking me to a history lecture, for all I knew, not invading and violating my childhood like some _phantom pervy_!”

If this comment offended the spirit, they did not let it show. Instead, they shrugged their twelve shoulders.

“We haven’t actually time travelled anywhere… not that you probably care about a word I say, I suppose. I know that you and your housemates _have_ time travelled before, too, so I didn’t think you’d be _this_ bothered,” they complained, rather unprofessionally, in Rick’s opinion. “For what it’s worth, we’re going to witness the shadows of things that have been – it’s totally different to time travel and way more zen.”

Rick didn’t think so, even though he knew nothing about any of this. He stomped through the sofa on his way to confront this self-proclaimed uniquely skilled individual.

“Well, what if I don’t _want_ to, hmm? Did you ever consider _that_ before you bypassed my human rights, fascist!? I’d rather be back in bed and-”

“Richard, look who’s been!”

 _Oh_.

Excited, a woman was calling from nearby outside the drawing room. Not just any woman, either. The door opened and the lights snapped on.

“Richard, darling?”

That _voice_. Rick had thought he would never hear it again. A painful urge, that was beyond his control, forced the poet to glance up at the doorway at this woman – at his mother. The spirit had gone quiet. She looked just as Rick remembered her, albeit younger than she had done in 1984. She would have been about thirty here, he recalled pointlessly, with the awful afterthought that she would only live into her mid-forties. Her dark brown hair was hanging loose around her face, a style Rick knew she only wore when relaxed and not around people who might need impressing. Likewise, her eyes, intensely blue, were particularly indicative of how she was feeling; Rick was struggling to look into them lest they give him flashbacks of every proud glance, every disappointed stare and every disapproving frown she had ever given him. The eyes were the windows to the soul, as some complete bastard had said.

Strangely, Rick was failing to respond to the entrance of his dead mother in any noticeable way other than by simply staring at her as if she was an exhibit in a museum or art gallery. That is to say, she felt out of reach. When she smiled – not _at_ Rick but in his general direction – he finally began shaking. Her smile was one of those rare things in the world that were utterly genuine. Rick had always been able to tell whether or not his mother meant what she said or if she was happy with something by her smile. This smile was a real one; it broke his heart.

She began walking towards him and a very quiet and lost sounding “Mummy?” escaped his lips before she walked straight through him. Rick blinked and rubbed his eyes. No, she couldn’t see him. _Obviously_ , she couldn’t see him: _she was_ _dead_.

“You can’t talk to her,” the spirit piped up softly, apologetically, “Like I said, these are just the shadows of things that have been. You can’t interfere or change how they played out.”

Rick may have wanted to burst into a rant at his unwanted company’s interruption but found that he couldn’t. His throat seemed to have closed up and no words would issue forth. He wasn’t even sure what he would have said, anyway.

His mother was currently inspecting the large and equally beautiful Christmas tree that he now noticed was behind him. Something really must have been wrong with him if he hadn’t taken _that_ in on first inspection of the room for it was by far the centrepiece, drawing all attention. Fancy baubles, golden tinsel, perfectly trimmed branches, glistening star on top – it screamed Christmastime. Perhaps the past few weeks of forced festive prep had immunised him to its effects and made him unaware of the holiday’s symbols when they appeared? Either that or he was turning into Neil and losing his rapier intellect under the guard of the Poltergoost of Christmas Past.

“Is it Father Christmas, mummy!?”

 _That_ shook him up, just when he had been starting to adjust. A miniature version of himself came rushing into the room in his old aeroplane pyjamas with practically no warning. Rick quickly moved to the side to let this giddy _thing_ hurry over and hug _his_ mother as she bent down to return his affection.

“I believe so: look at all the presents he’s brought you, sweetheart!” she told his past self, undeniably excited for her little son.

The mini Rick scurried around her skirts and disappeared momentarily under the tree, emerging seconds later with his face obscured by a mountain of meticulously wrapped gifts.

“Have we had a visitor?” another voice chimed in from the doorway.

Rick’s father entered and kissed his wife on the cheek with a smirk before sitting down on the armchair. Rick watched his parents exchange Christmas pleasantries with all-knowing glints in their eyes that he didn’t remember seeing when he had been the small child who was struggling to undo an extravagant bow. To be fair, his father’s lack of a receding hairline and mostly brown hair almost distracted him this time, too.

Indeed, his ambivalence at the whole situation was _immense_ : Rick was fighting with himself over feeling foolishly, deliriously happy at seeing his parents alive and well so clearly when another part of him was hurting worse than even his first night in the hospital because they weren’t actually alive and reliving this memory didn’t bring them back. The poet was about to give in and let himself cry when the poltergoost’s flame caught his eye.

“Why are you doing this to me?” he bemoaned, “This isn’t teaching me anything – it’s just blummin’ _cruel_! Fred won’t be best pleased, you know!”

The poltergoost drew closer to him, through a fast-growing pile of discarded wrapping paper – Rick had always been a shredder with presents.

“It’s important that you hang on to the good memories you have connected to your parents, man,” they tried to explain, “I chose this year for a reason… it’s the first Christmas you can remember, at least, like, properly.”

Rick raised an eyebrow at them but had to admit that – creepy though it was to have someone else know the inner-workings of his mind – this _was_ the first Christmas he could remember with any clarity. It had been… nice. Simple. The three of them and no one else.

“How do you know that?” he inquired, because he had to.

“I’m the Poltergoost of Christmas Past, Rick, I keep telling you,” the spirit reiterated in exasperation.

The odd duo stood and watched the Pratt family enjoy their Christmas is mostly silence from then on. The spirit didn’t make a point of telling Rick about the tears that streamed from his eyes every now and then – when his mother smiled, when his father smiled, when he smiled, when his parents told his past self how much they loved him. The poet held himself, feigning a chill, though in reality he was trying to replicate the physical affection from two people he would never receive it from again.

“I didn’t appreciate it,” Rick lamented pitifully when the ridiculous number of presents were unwrapped and mini Rick was swatting his mother away so that he could play with his new train set.

It seemed she had been about to kiss his forehead and yet her son’s rudeness didn’t appear to bother her. She smiled and shook her head rather adoringly, going to perch on the armchair next to Rick’s father. Rick had known he had his parents wrapped around his little finger, even at a young age, because he always seemed to get away with more cheek with them than the other children at his primary school did with their parents. It occurred that this could have been why he had been so scared to shatter their precious son image by coming out to them. Would that just have been _too_ much?

From observing the joy in their eyes as they watched his younger self play, Rick couldn’t fathom in this moment how anything he might have told them would possibly have been too much. There was a phrase for this kind of thing – unconditional love. Then again, it was very easy to think they wouldn’t care when they couldn’t see him with Vyvyan.

“What didn’t you appreciate?” the spirit prompted, as if they weren’t already aware.

“Everything. I took this for granted… I took _them_ for granted,” Rick confessed glumly.

“But, Rick, you were six years old here – shouldn’t you have taken everything for granted?” they reasoned.

“That’s not what I mean!” Rick sniffed, “It wasn’t _just_ Christmas. I knew my parents would do anything for me because… because of… _her_.”

The spirit nodded sagely.

“Your sister,” they assumed.

“I suppose,” Rick agreed, wiping his eyes, “They lost her before they even had a chance to know her properly so I was always going to seem special.”

There was a bitterness in his tone now – he _never_ spoke about _her_. Talking about _her_ created a world of what ifs and maybes and that had normally ended with his mother in tears. It wasn’t fair: that was the only definite.

“Isn’t the People’s Poet, like, pretty special?” the spirit countered.

“No,” Rick answered honestly, “Not anymore special than they were, anyway.”

He shuffled over to his parents on the armchair and stood before them. An unusual feeling of calm washed over him. His father wrapped an arm around his mother. Rick smiled a weak smile at them.

“Is there something you’d like to say before we move on?” the spirit asked him.

 _Move on_. Rick’s heart twinged with sadness. Yes, he couldn’t stay in his childhood with them forever, that would be stupid. There was something about opening up to a complete stranger – one as annoying as the poltergoost, even – that had emboldened him. He nodded and took a deep breath.

“You’re both dead now,” he told his parents matter-of-factly, “There was a car crash… it wasn’t daddy’s fault! It was that fascist coming the other- oh, look, that isn’t what I wanted to talk about.” He closed his eyes for a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaled and then looked back up at them to continue. “Thank you for loving me when no one else did… I’m… I’m sorry I didn’t realise until it was too late… maybe I could have been a better son.”

The spirit was beginning to look ever so slightly twitchy. He needed to hurry up; panic squeezed at him.

“There’s o-one last thing I’ve got to t-tell you,” Rick whimpered, starting to weep involuntarily again, “I’m- I’m gay; I like boys- well, _men_.” He corrected himself with a hiccup. “I hope that wouldn’t bother either of you too much because it’s the _one ruddy thing_ I can’t do anything about.”

His parents didn’t respond to this world-altering confession. Instead, they carried on looking past Rick at his younger self. They were _happy_. They had been _happy_.

“It’s time to go, Rick,” the spirit called over to him, respectfully subdued in volume.

Rick nodded, though he didn’t take his eyes away from his mother and father.

“I love you both; I miss you,” he said very quietly.

Then they were gone.

***

The next sensation Rick was aware of was the poltergoost patting him on the shoulder with at least three of their hands.

“What you said there – that was really beautiful, man,” they told him in earnest.

Rick shrugged them off hastily and glared, not liking the emotional leverage he had given this being one bit.

“It wasn’t for your benefit!” he sniped.

Wherever the spirit had taken him now was definitely _not_ in any of his memories: a dingy flat with grime smeared up the walls and doorways, empty or half-drunk cans of beer and used cigarettes littered hazily about and a nasty handbag overflowing with notes and condoms sat ready by the front door wasn’t the kind of a place Rick would have forgotten, even if he had wanted to. What was more, the toxic smell emitting from what he had to assume was the kitchen area was enough to fry his nostrils! He coughed.

“Where-”

A shockingly loud succession of raps at the door cut across the poet, followed by a short creature moving fast enough to look like a murky blur cutting through him from behind.

“I wish people would stop _doing_ that!” Rick yelped.

There was the sound of the door opening.

“Uncle Eddie!” a young child cried out in greeting – they must have been the murky blur.

“Hello, skip,” a male voice replied.

Rick was about to ask the spirit what the bloody hell they thought they were doing bringing him to some random family’s Christmas day when a young brunette woman stepped out from one of the dimly lit tunnels the poet had to presume led to bedrooms and into the larger living space he and the spirit were currently occupying. There was something familiar about this woman; maybe it was the pissed off scowl on her face or the tacky clothes she was wearing. Whatever it was about her appearance that rang bells for Rick, the first word he heard leave her mouth demystified her identity instantly.

“Vyvyan! What have I told you about not opening the door to strange men!?” she snapped.

She was Vyvyan’s mother! Of course! But that didn’t explain what Rick was doing here. He would have been lying if he said he wasn’t at least the tiniest bit interested in seeing what his boyfriend looked like as a child – the punk wasn’t known for sharing such information – but his theatrical spat with him was still fresh and somewhat embarrassing. Rick didn’t know if he was ready to see a Vyvyan of _any_ kind yet.

However, this choice wasn’t his to make.

“Uncle Eddie, it’s Christmas!”

The small murky blur was back and in focus, practically buzzing with a more childlike version of the chaotic energy Vyvyan was famed for. Ms Basterd rolled her eyes and Rick honestly wasn’t sure if it was due to her previous comment being ignored or general disdain for her child. Her child, to be fair, did seem like a bit of a handful: his grin, cheeky rather than psychopathic at this stage, was unmistakably one of a troublemaker, as was the distinctly _Vyvyan_ glint in his eyes. Still, he certainly didn’t look as intimidating as the punk he would turn into – he was far too small and, worryingly, thin for that. The mismatched oversized and undersized clothes he had on weren’t helping, either. Neither was his high-pitched voice. Rick frowned.

Wait… Vyvyan was _blonde_ underneath all that hair dye!?

“You understand, like, _why_ I’m showing you this, right?”

Rick turned his head at the poltergoost’s voice and stared at them blankly.

“This is still 1969,” they clarified, “I just thought it would be beneficial – like, emotionally – for you to get a bit of perspective on what constitutes a really heavy Christmas.”

Rick sighed irritably. He really should have been more careful with what he said around the spirit.

“I know I told you that I should have been more appreciative but I haven’t led a _perfect_ life, you know!” he informed them rather bitterly – some would say childishly.

“I’m well aware,” the spirit agreed with him.

Well… that outcome was _infinitely_ worse. Rick paled and turned back to the strangely innocent Vyvyan before him. The man at the door – Rick may have heard Vyvyan mention him a couple of times; he couldn’t be sure as he tended to tune out things that didn’t revolve around him – stepped into the harsh light of the flat and smiled rather pointlessly. He was young, younger than Vyvyan’s mother, who appeared about twenty-two. He could have been twenty, perhaps? Quite young for an uncle in Rick’s book, though he quickly reminded himself that the People’s Poet shouldn’t be so narrowminded. Especially regarding his _boyfriend’s_ family.

This Uncle Eddie removed the brown trilby hat he was wearing to reveal that he was also blonde and very obviously a relation of Vyvyan’s. Though he had glasses on, it was clear that facially he and his nephew were noticeably similar.

“Christmas? Is it?” Eddie asked Vyvyan in mild shock, “Oh bugger, I knew there was a reason Richie seemed extra manic this morning.”

Ms Basterd sneered.

“You need to ditch that twat, Edward, or you’ll never be rid of him,” she warned.

Eddie shrugged his shoulders fatalistically and made his way over to his sister to hand over a fiver “for dinner”. Rick would have paid closer attention to their interaction but found his focus was drawn to little Vyvyan, whose excitement at seeing his uncle had suddenly dissipated and been replaced by disappointment. The glint in his eyes had dimmed.

“Does that mean… you haven’t bought me a present either?” he asked in a sad, quiet voice that Rick certainly hadn’t heard him use in the past three years.

This was unacceptable! Who the _ruddy heck_ did these people think they were, wielding so much power over Vyvyan Basterd’s happiness!? This just didn’t make any sense. What had he meant by the word “either”, why was his mother swearing in front of him and why – Cliff, _why_ – was he _so thin_!? Rick had never had much time for children but he desperately wanted to… to… to do _something_ here! It just wasn’t right! He glanced at his poltergoost guide, hoping to see a comradely reaction of outrage.

“What, Rick?” the spirit questioned him instead, “I thought Christmas was a blummin’ great waste of time because it’s orchestrated by fascists who want everyone to spend lots of money until all the working classes can’t afford to eat.”

“Don’t throw words in my face!” Rick told them angrily.

“ _Your_ words,” the spirit reminded him, “Isn’t this proving you right? You should be pleased.”

Before Rick could reply, he witnessed Vyvyan’s mother march over to him and give him a clip ‘round the ear hole. Rick’s mouth dropped open; Vyvyan didn’t flinch.

“Don’t be so ungrateful!” his mother chastised him.

By some miracle, Eddie chose this moment to act and lighten the mood. He returned to his nephew, who had already been left alone again, with an exaggerated grin. Vyvyan perked up.

“Not bought my _favourite_ nephew a Christmas present!?” he cried in mock-offence, placing a hand over his chest.

Vyvyan giggled and smiled up at him expectantly.

“He’s your _only_ bloody nephew…” Ms Basterd muttered from across the room.

“Of course I have!” Eddie went on a little louder, maybe in an effort to drown her out. “Here you go, skip.”

He went fishing about in the pockets of the grey coat he had yet to take off. Rick may have judged the man too soon; if he had bothered to buy a present for Vyvyan when his own mother hadn’t then how bad could he be?

“Really? What is it?” Vyvyan asked, beginning to bounce with anticipation.

The poet found himself smiling at the sight.

“You’ll have to open it and find out,” Eddie informed his nephew cheerfully, finally presenting him with his gift… a bottle of scotch.

The smile splattered from Rick’s face into the depths of hell, which was quite dramatic. The inappropriate present had almost the opposite effect on Vyvyan – he didn’t appear to realise what it was and seemed curious. A time before the punk knew of alcohol; a long time ago, indeed.

“This is amazing!” Vyvyan declared, at last procuring Ms Basterd’s attention. His uncle smiled a tad smugly and bobbed his head. Vyvyan shook the bottle. “What _is_ it?”

“This, young nephew, is one of the greatest gifts a man can get!” Eddie assured him with a pat on the back.

“It is!?” Vyvyan gasped.

Just in time, a nail polished hand swooped down from behind him and snatched the bottle. Despite his loyal dislike of the woman, Rick was glad she had stepped in before things got messy. Well, _messier_. Poor Vyvyan simply looked hurt and betrayed.

“You’re _not_ giving him a bottle of scotch! He’s only six – you’ve got to wait at least another two years for that!” Ms Basterd yelled at her brother.

If anyone else had been in her place then Rick probably would have believed some kind of maternal instinct had kicked in. As it was, the poet didn’t agree that eight years old was the proper age to start drinking either and so could only watch in frustration as Vyvyan’s mother flicked Eddie on the forehead and went to store the scotch in an already brimming cupboard of liquor in the kitchen.

“Ah,” Eddie grunted, “Sorry, _sister dearest_ …”

There didn’t seem to be much love lost between those two.

Whilst Ms Basterd was distracted by what looked like vodka from Rick’s view, Vyvyan’s lower lip trembled. Christ! This was just _miserable_ , wasn’t it? How could Vyvyan could stand Christmas at all after going through ones such as these? Guilt churned away in the poet’s stomach and – as everybody knew – Rick didn’t like feeling guilty.

“Don’t be so sad, Vyv. Look.”

His uncle was still trying, for some unknown reason. He pulled one more surprise from his coat.

“Another present!” Vyvyan cheered.

The boy’s emotions were up and down more times than a yo-yo! Rick looked to the spirit warily; he wasn’t convinced the magazine Vyvyan’s uncle was clutching wouldn’t turn out to be a rudie one. The spirit shrugged unhelpfully. Fascist.

“Yes, indeedy-doo!” Eddie enthused, handing over the magazine, “And that one’s not supposed to be out for a couple of days yet so, if anyone asks, it wasn’t me.”

He winked conspiratorially at Vyvyan, who was already flicking through the pages, eyes widening in awe. Still not convinced, Rick peered more closely at the magazine and discovered that it wasn’t actually a magazine, it was a comic. A copy of _The Beano_. He exhaled in relief.

“Thanks, Uncle Eddie!” Vyvyan chirruped.

“That’s alright, kiddo.”

The small child dashed off into a manky corner of the room where a crusty cushion was lying against the rotten wall. He sat down and stared at the comic, his face scrunching up in concentration as it still often did in 1984. Something occurred to Rick then: Vyvyan didn’t appear to be reading the comic or, if he was, he was struggling mightily with the task. Couldn’t he read at all at age six? That was a little unusual. The poet frowned again.

Meanwhile, Eddie ambled in his way into the kitchen and chucked his coat at his sister.

“You know Vyvyan can’t read properly yet. What was the point in that?” she hissed under her breath at him.

“Come on, it’s Christmas, Pauline! Where’s your peace and goodwill?” he mocked her.

Ms Basterd headed off to hang up Eddie’s coat by the door and Rick was vaguely amused to see the siblings roll their eyes at each other when they thought the other couldn’t see them. Eddie sneakily grabbed one of the bottles from the loaded cupboard.

“Peace and goodwill?” the poet heard Vyvyan’s mother muttering as she returned, “Vanished the second that little bastard popped out of me…”

***

The poltergoost kept Rick in the home of the Basterds a lot longer than they had with the Pratts. Unexpectedly, Rick didn’t complain about this once – his nose must have adjusted to the smell. In fact, he wasn’t very aware of the spirit’s presence at all, opting to sit by little Vyvyan and watch him… well, enjoy the pictures of his new comic.

At about 7pm, after the three family members had been fed scraps from what was apparently last night’s curry, Ms Basterd groaned. Vyvyan didn’t react, still absorbed in his comic. His mother had been sprawled on a rather moth-eaten sofa for some time now whilst Eddie had been doing the same but on the floor; a scary amount of newly empty bottles and cans lay around them.

“’S bloody freezin’ in ‘ere!” Ms Basterd slurred.

She managed to haul herself up into a sitting position and squint at her son, who still was paying her no mind. Eddie hiccupped from the floor.

“Vyv’yan… give us your _Beano_ ,” she asked, arm outstretched in waiting.

“But I’ve not finished it yet,” he complained from his corner and Rick noticed his grip on the comic tighten.

“Yeah, fascist, he’s not finished it yet!” the poet snapped at her defensively.

Unfortunately, Ms Basterd managed to stand and waddle – quite awkwardly, Rick would have said – towards her son. Vyvyan tried to draw away further into the corner.

“Yeah? Well, pneumonia doesn’t wait for stup’d boys to learn ta read ‘fore it kills off their mothers,” she growled at him, a deeper anger she hadn’t showcased thus far today coming through.

With a slight tremble, Vyvyan did as he was told and handed over his one and only Christmas present. Had Rick ever seen his boyfriend obey _anyone_ before? Except perhaps Mike because Mike was Mike and that was _different_. There was a strange look on little Vyvyan’s face now – it was as if he was caught between fury and tears. Rick didn’t like it one bit.

Ms Basterd waddled back across the room to where the fireplace was – something triumphant in her posture now. Rick and Vyvyan both seemed to comprehend what she was about to do at the same time and the spirit was in the peculiar situation of seeing their eyes widen simultaneously.

“Mum, no!” Vyvyan cried out.

It didn’t matter; his _Beano_ was tossed on to the fire.

“That’s better!” Ms Basterd announced, finally placated.

She flopped back on to the sofa and immediately began snoring.

Vyvyan scampered over to the fireplace with Rick not far behind him. They both stopped to oversee the damage: the comic was already burning, completely irretrievable. This was terrible. So terrible that Rick wasn’t sure what to make of it. Of course, whilst the comic itself was cheap and undoubtedly easy to replace, that wasn’t the point, was it? Sentimentality was the point. Rick eyed the small Vyvyan warily – he looked as though he was deliberating jumping in to rescue the comic by the way his fists were twitching! _Please, don’t let him do that!_ An unwanted memory of a much older Vyvyan grinning madly at his burn marks after the crash flashed through Rick’s mind. How long ago had the punk’s total disregard for his own safety started!?

The letters spelling out _Beano_ browned away into indistinguishable charred paper and with them went whatever impulse Vyvyan had been grappling with. He sighed, bowing his head, and let out a tiny sniffle.

Rick looked to the spirit again as if they could do anything.

“You can’t change the past, man,” they reminded him.

Rick flicked them the v.

However, even at this age Vyvyan didn’t seem keen on crying. He rubbed his eyes rather savagely and turned towards his uncle’s semi-conscious figure with some purpose.

“Uncle Eddie, she threw my present on the fire!” he stropped, with the tenacity of any six year old.

“What?” Eddie groaned, using a surely splinter-filled coffee table to prop himself up. He closed one eye and glanced at the fire. When his gaze focused, his face softened. “I’m sorry, kiddo.” He hiccupped violently.

Vyvyan nodded, his brow furrowing in thought. He marched over to his uncle’s side.

“I want to come and live with you!” he told him defiantly, “She _hates_ me and she’s ruined Christmas!”

He started sniffling again, his cheeks turning red. Eddie reached over precariously and patted him on the arm.

“There, there, Vyv; come on now… show us that grin of yours, eh?” he encouraged him.

Vyvyan smiled sadly. It was nowhere near one of his grins.

“There it is!” Eddie cheered regardless.

Vyvyan huffed and sat down.

“Can I come and live with you, Uncle Eddie? Please?” he almost begged him.

Eddie sighed and Rick already knew his answer.

“I don’t think you’d like living with me as much as you think you would, Vyv,” he confessed, sounding more sober than he should have done. He took another swig from a bottle that had been hidden underneath him. “I wouldn’t want you to have to deal with Richie,” he paused, “It’s bad enough that _I_ do.”

This didn’t appear to have put Vyvyan off.

“I thought he was your friend?” he questioned suspiciously.

“Oh, he is… in a manner of speaking,” Eddie assured him.

“Then why can’t I come?” Vyvyan tried again, “Do you… do you not want me?”

He sounded so lost. Bloody hell. The only thing – and it was a _stupid_ thing – that Rick could think about was how cross Vyvyan would be if he knew Rick was sneaking in on his memories. It likely was a trifle unethical, if he thought about it. Then again, it was the poltergoost’s fault he was here so that absolved him from all wrongdoing, didn’t it? It didn’t feel like it did. Maybe there was something else about this that bothered him…

“ _What_? No, no! I just don’t think I’m cut out to be a parent, that’s all,” Eddie clarified, “Y’know, that’s a very dark thought for such a little sprog, skip.”

There was, despite his general drunkenness, the shadow of concern upon Eddie’s face now. He patted his nephew’s arm again, probably in an effort to be comforting.

“I’m not _little_ , Uncle Eddie, I’m nearly _seven_!” Vyvyan whined, puffing out his chest.

“Aye, I suppose you’re not that little,” Eddie conceded with a knowing smile, “I tell you what – seeing as you’re _so big_ now – do you want some of the scotch?”

Vyvyan raised an eyebrow.

“Will it make her angry?” he asked.

“Your mum? Possibly, if she finds out,” Eddie answered honestly.

That wicked grin was back in business.

“Then yes!”

Well, this had escalated quickly! Rick glared at Vyvyan’s uncle disapprovingly and crossed his arms. The man was definitely right about something: he was _not_ cut out to be a parent! That said, neither was Ms Basterd, quite obviously, as she was still passed out and snoring loudly on the sofa.

“Attaboy, Vyv!” Eddie praised his nephew, handing him the bottle he had been coveting, “Now, _drink slowly_. It’s only your first time.”

Vyvyan nodded a took a curious sip. He winced.

“Eugh!”

“It’s gets better the longer you drink it,” Eddie told him.

“Alright…”

The young boy coughed before going back in for a nice, long glug. Eddie watched with some amazement, not even annoyed that his booze was rapidly vanishing right in front of his eyes. When Vyvyan handed back the bottle, he swayed… despite the fact that he was sat down.

“It still tastes yucky to me, Uncle Eddie…” he admitted apologetically, “I feel a bit funny…”

Eddie nodded.

“Yeah? Sleepy?”

“Mhm…” Vyvyan hummed, blinking very slowly and flopping against his uncle.

Rick was furious.

“This _individual_ has drugged my- _he’s drugged Vyvyan!_ ” he ranted at the poltergoost.

They shrugged and pointed at the two inebriated humans: Vyvyan had fallen asleep and Eddie was smiling down at him. He sighed, downing the remainder of the scotch. To Rick’s outrage and various colourful insults, he picked his nephew up and staggered into one of the tunnels leading out of the living area. Rick chased after them in a rage.

“Hey! Stop right this instant, you… you… _poo-hole_!”

Quite understandably – he couldn’t hear the apoplectic poet, after all – Eddie didn’t stop. The tunnel turned out to be a short corridor that led to a box room, which he meandered along and then into the room at the end. Inside, though the lighting was poor, Rick could see an ancient mattress with a few springs loose and a thin, discoloured sheet lying on top of it.

“He doesn’t even have a proper bed!” Rick groaned, rubbing his temples.

Eddie lay Vyvyan down and tucked the useless sheet around him.

“Now leave!” Rick snapped.

Annoyingly, Eddie did not vacate the bedroom instantaneously. Vyvyan sucked his thumb but otherwise remained perfectly immobile – this was a trait he hadn’t quite shaken even in later life, not that Rick had the guts to tell him this. There were at least ten seconds where Eddie just stared down at his nephew like this, not moving to go or conversely to help in any further way. He issued forth another sigh, this one heavier than the last.

“See you soon, little blighter,” Rick heard him whisper before he left.

“Good riddance, you bastard,” the poet grumbled once he was gone.

A couple of pairs of hands danced in his peripheral vision, meaning that the poltergoost must have joined Rick at some point. Truthfully, they could have been here the whole time for all his observation skills were worth.

“You think he’s a bastard?” the spirit asked, as if this was surprising.

“Well, yes _actually_ , I do!” Rick scoffed at them, “He just gave a child scotch! I don’t know what you _poltergoosts_ would call that but I call it totally irresponsible!”

The spirit drew towards the sleeping Vyvyan.

“ _He_ doesn’t see him as a bastard, you know,” they noted thoughtfully, “Well… less of a bastard than most, I think his full stance is.”

Rick crossed his arms yet stayed quiet.

“Even in the present Vyvyan prefers him to, like, his mother,” the spirit pointed out.

“Of course he would!” Rick sniffed haughtily, “His mother’s a completely horrid bit- a witch. She’s a completely horrid witch!” He relaxed his posture somewhat and sighed. “I don’t know why she kept him if she was going to treat him this badly…”

The room began to blur and fade, twisting out of existence. Soon, all that was left from it was Vyvyan wrapped up in his blanket. Rick stared at the boy he would one day meet, fight with and eventually snog; it was a strange feeling. The spirit’s voice echoed around them both.

“She was going to give him away for adoption as soon as he was born-” Vyvyan wriggled about, as if he could somehow hear what was being said, “-but she didn’t have the heart to do it when she saw his face for the first time.”

“Then what was _that_!? Out there? All the anger?” Rick demanded, “ _That_ wasn’t love!”

His voice cracked on the last word. Love, indeed. Had anybody ever shown Vyvyan love? Had Rick?

“You’re right,” the spirit told him, “ _That_ was resentment… she should have just given him away at the start. It would have been kinder, man.”

Rick forbade himself from crying _again_ in front of the poltergoost. It was far too humiliating and he didn’t have the energy. Besides, Vyvyan was fast fading away now. Rick stumbled towards him and touched the last wisp of his cheek – it felt like nothing.

“Vyv!” he yelped.

“Two Christmases from this one, he was in the foster system,” the spirit droned on mournfully into the darkness, “She left him in early December and he never knew why. He knows what it’s like to dread Christmastime too, Rick. I bet you were too busy being a heavy vibe merchant to consider that, weren’t you?”

Rick dived for the poltergoost, ready to take them out for good, but this was when everything changed again.

***

He landed on his face.

The spirit was rambling on about how Rick couldn’t hurt them because they had a contract from some sort of head office that stated they were to be free from harm unless the imaginary friends department of whatever weird and wonderful world the strange beings who enjoyed haunting Rick came from wanted suing but the poet wasn’t listening. Why would he listen to any of that drivel? His face had just smacked into the hard, wooden floor panelling of a place he had hoped he would never have to return to. He got up, looking dishevelled.

 _“Why have you brought me here!?”_ he screamed.

Toffworths House for Disgustingly Privileged Children – the last part wasn’t absolutely official, what the people inside the school called an oik had graffitied it on to the sign during Rick’s third year – had been Rick’s hell away from home for _seven years_. 1974-1981. Anything that had been thrown at him during his time at Scumbag College hadn’t even come remotely close to the torture of secondary school and sixth form in this building. That fact that he recognised the place purely from having his faced smashed into the floorboards made that clear enough.

“You spent an important Christmas here, man,” the spirit reminded him firmly.

Oh no. Not _that_ one.

“I don’t ruddy care!” Rick carried on at the same volume, “That’s no reason for me to relive it, _thank you very much_!”

“It is, actually.”

“Isn’t!”

“It is.”

The problem that everyone barring Rick seemed to have with accepting what an evil place Toffworths was, was that due to it’s historical, well-kept and over-funded architecture and resources it appeared outwardly a perfectly charming and exciting place for growing youths to be. Especially rich growing youths, who had always needed more space and better equipment to enjoy life than their impoverished counterparts. Rick hadn’t fit into this social group as snugly as was necessary for him to – middle class though he was, his parents didn’t own a country manor and several large houses in the south of France. He was a _privileged child_ , most notably when compared to Vyvyan and some of the other students at Scumbag, but he wasn’t _disgustingly privileged_ as the students he had met at this school had been. Still a spoiled brat and criminally unaware of anything important until the summer of 1981, but there was no blue blood in him.

Why had his parents forked over the money and sent him to Toffworths, then? Because, like so many fretful parents before them, they had wanted the best for their son and thought only a private education could give him this. Honestly, with the Tories in power, they might have been on to something…

“Julian!”

Rick’s fury was heightened by the unexpected sound of _his_ voice. That utter knob-face, posho, rich-boy. Rick’s first and last friend at the school. Well, if the term “friend” had a fairly large definition.

They were sat by one of the huge, polished windows playing chess. Rick had never been very good at chess but hadn’t wanted to tell his _friend_ this in case he came across as dim and so he had lost every round. Strangely, the fool had thought Rick was simply being nice to him.

“Julian, over here!”

Rick cringed to observe his younger self smile idiotically – not to mention, adoringly – in that terrible burgundy blazer that was about three sizes too big for his first year frame at the boy opposite him: Dick Kirrin, who was currently waving embarrassingly at his even more knob-faced older brother. What _had_ he been thinking?

“Aren’t you going to watch?” the spirit implored him, “It’ll be over quicker if you do.”

Sulkily and not truly buying this logic, Rick forced himself to take in the sight of Dick. The boy had been slightly taller than Rick at this age, though only by an inch or so. He had never had any spots – unlike Rick, who had been spotty since his last two years of primary school. Dick’s hair was blonde, never greasy and fashioned typically so that he had a strict side parting on the left. Naturally, he looked younger here than he did in Rick’s memory of events but then Rick himself was older now.

“Hello, Dick,” a brunette boy with a similar, if not more of a stuffy appearance than Dick greeted the two boys rigidly after approaching, “Who’s this strange chap?”

Julian Kirrin had never been the friendliest guy in the world. If anything, the cold attitude he adopted towards Rick during their shared time at Toffworths was only an exaggeration of the lukewarm approach he took regarding any person who wasn’t a member of _the Famous Five_ … whatever _that_ was…

Rick’s younger self stood up and nearly knocked the chair he had been sitting on over. Yes, that was right, Julian had _always_ made him excruciatingly nervous, even at their first meeting.

“Hello,” he squeaked out in an adolescent scratch, “Pleased to meet you. I’m-”

“This is Rick, Ju,” Dick interrupted him with considerable excitement, “Can you believe it? We have the same name! Isn’t it funny?”

“I suppose it is,” Julian conceded, looking unamused and bored.

By the look of hilarity on his face, Dick honestly had thought this a funny coincidence. Rick was reminded of Vyvyan’s jokes about Richie Rich and was suddenly hit by the revelation that Dick did look a little like the punk. Only a little. In every possible way, the two of them were chalk and cheese and the poet was glad for it. However – and maybe it was the discovery of Vyvyan’s natural hair colour clouding his judgement – there was something in Dick’s physicality that reminded him of his boyfriend. Could it be true that Rick’s type was shallower than he thought?

Dick was speaking again.

“Do you think perhaps Rick could join us for Christmas dinner tonight? I expect it would be a rather more jolly occasion with three of us tucking into turkeys than just the two,” he asked hopefully.

Cliff, Rick had forgotten just how posh Dick was! He really was detached from reality entirely, wasn’t he?

“I’m sorry to hamper your spirits, Dick,” Julian told him in a tone of voice that suggested the exact opposite, “But I’m not sure that Anne has sent enough Christmas pudding for three.”

“Oh no, _bad show_!” Dick declared in disappointment.

“A-Anne?” came a timid question from the younger Rick.

It was screamingly obvious that he was scared this Anne could have been Dick’s girlfriend or something. Rick’s abilities to hide his poofiness from the straight world had never been as finely tuned as he had wanted them to be. Luckily, Dick didn’t notice this; unluckily, Julian did.

“Our younger sister – she’s a proper little housewife, you know,” Dick explained casually.

Rick watched himself nod and laugh along as though Dick was ever so witty. He dreaded to think what the people down at the Anarchists’ Society would have thought to see him indulging in such sexist banter!

“Yes, I know, I was a tiny tinpot dictator waiting to vote Tory,” he muttered at the spirit, feeling his cheeks heat up.

The spirit frowned.

“That’s a tad extreme, man.”

Rick didn’t care to argue, for once.

“Ah well, silly Anne,” Dick sighed, “I supposed it’s a bit too much to expect a _girl_ to be good at mathematics. Does that mean Ricky can’t join us then, Ju?”

 _Ricky_. Blummin’ flip, Rick had forgotten Dick had used to call him that sometimes! He watched his younger self blush with secret feelings. Only, this time, he also watched Julian’s forehead crease with mounting concerns.

“I’m afraid not,” the older Kirrin quipped shortly, “After all, it wouldn’t be fair if either of us missed out on our fair share of homemade cauliflower cheese, buttered roast potatoes and parsnips, heaps of fresh vegetables, rounds of succulent poultry and just the slight dash of eggnog.”

Dick’s eyes glazed over at this heavenly list of food. His appetite, Rick had discovered on their first night at Toffworths, knew no bounds.

“Top point, Ju. It just wouldn’t be Christmas without all those mice pies, chocolate logs and Anne’s special Christmas pudding!” he agreed quite heartily, “Sorry, Rick, maybe some other time?”

To give the posh twat his due, he did sound disappointed. Still, it was all bluster, wasn’t it?

“Of course,” the young Rick replied, smiling a fake smile.

Now, _that_ was disappointment.

Before Rick could voice his complaints, all twelve of the poltergoost’s arms began rotating in a frightening cycle around their fiery head. He backed away from them as he had done in the house on Codrington Road, barely noticing the three figures whose interaction they had been watching exit the room at unnatural speeds. The scenery changed. Quite unexpectedly, Rick now found himself in the second year boys’ dormitories – also historical, charming and well-kept and one of Rick’s least favourite places. He turned to the spirit, who by now had stopped their arm magic.

“I wasn’t old enough to come in here that year. What are we doing?” he queried.

“Something happened in here, right. Something you’ve been unaware of for ten years,” the spirit revealed mysteriously.

Was this being _really_ not just Neil possessed?

“What?” Rick pushed, “What happened?”

He didn’t like being left out of the loop. Nevertheless, the poltergoost pointed with a cluster of fingers towards the door where the handle was rattling. A moment later, Julian entered with Dick in tow behind him.

“Sit down, Dick,” he instructed.

The brothers sat down on identical iron beds. The sheets must have been in the process of being washed because the mattresses were bare. Julian leant forwards to inspect his bother more closely.

“What’s wrong, Julian? You’ve been in an awfully queer mood all day. It’s Christmas!” Dick rabbited on, probably meaning well amongst his nonsense and not noticing the way his brother flinched at the word “queer”.

“Dick, this is very important and I’m only going to warn you the once,” Julian told him in what must have constituted as a serious tone for twelve year olds.

“Yes, Julian,” Dick answered, nodding solemnly.

“We’re the famous five: we _don’t_ make friends with other children! What were you thinking of?”

At this, Rick jumped up triumphantly.

“Ha! I _knew_ he had a creepy obsession with his grubby Hitler Youth group!” he shouted.

The poltergoost face palmed with four of their hands.

Dick, contrary to what the incensed poet may have thought, wasn’t fond of the disapproving stance his brother had taken in regards to their friendship. He looked down at his hands and replied rather more carefully than he usually did.

“But why can’t we?” he questioned, “Rick’s a real brick… I only wanted to invite him to share our Christmas dinner!”

This was making Rick’s brain ache – what was Dick so upset about? He had followed Julian and his orders around like a lost puppy throughout their next six and a half years of education. Why was he _challenging_ him? What changed?

“No! And I don’t want you talking to him again either!” Julian snapped, narrowing his eyes.

“But, Ju-”

_“No!”_

Julian had reached over and grabbed one of Dick’s arms to ensure he looked up at him. Uneasily, Rick could see that it was a tight grip – the skin around Julian’s fingers had gone faintly red and Dick’s eyes were shiny. This… this wasn’t how their interactions usually went… was it?

“I’m your older brother and you have to do as I say,” Julian muttered; a threat accompanied by a substantial squeeze.

Dick squirmed and tried to pull his arm away.

“Alright, Ju,” he whispered, bottom lip trembling, “I promise not to talk to him again…”

Julian released his arm and smiled – a smile that was neither well-intentioned nor reciprocated. He ruffled his younger brother’s hair and stood up.

“Good show, you understand.”

Dick was left alone then; alone to rub at his arm and to try and fix his hair. Rick peered at him through a guarded expression, head cocked at an angle. Well… that had been… enlightening. The young Dick didn’t look happy. Rather, he looked dismayed and a tiny bit afraid. He didn’t make an effort to get up at all, instead opting to stay seated on the bed and stare at the floorboards. Rick watched him, watched him feel sorry for himself.

Did finding out why Dick had turned on him actually change anything? _Really_?

Rick approached the boy who for one school term had been his friend. He hovered in front of the bed Julian had been sat at and sneered down at him.

“You didn’t have to be such a _bastard_ to me,” he hissed.

He had lost his only friend because his big brother had swooped in with some 1950s style homophobia and told him off!? Had Dick _ever_ realised the truth!? Had he ever known that while he was busy giggling inanely as some upper-class so-and-so forced Rick’s head down the toilet or beat him to a bloody pulp behind the changing rooms after PE… had he ever _once_ used his brain and figured out that Rick had _feelings_ for him? Feelings that took a long time to fade. Feelings that had meant that throughout every horrifying ordeal there had been a stubborn voice of hope telling Rick that maybe _this time_ Dick would remember the fun they had had – maybe _this time_ he would defend him.

But he never had.

Dick, selfish turd that he was, chose this moment to burst into tears. Rick groaned and covered his face with his hands for a minute.

“Poor, little rich boy…” he laughed sarcastically. It was time to go. The poet stepped over to the spirit, trying his damnedest to block out the pathetic sobs behind him. He pointed at the poltergoost, although this only made his shaking that had started in his core worse. It felt better to direct this at someone, at least. “Look,” he began and the spirit nodded, “I’m sorry he had such a knob for a brother, alright? _I am_. But… but that wasn’t _my_ fault!” Rick rubbed his eyes despite his former promise and then sighed in frustration. He carried on pointing, as if his life depended on it. “I didn’t _deserve_ that! I didn- why couldn’t he have been _better than that_!? Hm? You’re the Ghost of ruddy Christmas Past – _tell me why he couldn't have been better_!”

“I’m not a ghost, Rick, I told you-”

“ _Shut up_! Right, this is it – I want to go home. Take me back.”

The spirit shook their head.

“ _No_!? Piss off, the bloody cheek!” Rick snarled, murder in his eyes, “Come on, you blummin’ rip off of Neil, where’s your shower cap?”

The fire surrounding the poltergoost’s head suddenly brightened considerably and let out a dull roar. Rick sprung back in shock.

“I’m sorry, man, this is the final thing-”

The poet looked around himself – the fascist had worked their voodoo again! They were in the commons area and there was Rick’s past self, stood by the doorway with a parcel in his hands and an anxious expression on his spotty face. Rick knew what was about to happen here and he _did not_ want to watch it unfold.

“No! I’ve seen enough!” he protested, trying to lunge at the spirit.

He missed by quite a way, his eyes too full of tears to see properly, landing back on the unforgiving floor of Toffworths.

“I’m sorry, man-” the spirit tried again.

“You _bastard_!” Rick howled at them, fully dissolving into his misery.

Across the room, Julian strode through the doorway next to young Rick, dead set on whatever he had come here to do.

“O-oh! Hello again, Ju-Julian,” the unaware fool piped up, “H-have you seen Dick anywhere? I wanted to give him-”

“Yes, but I certainly won’t be letting _you_ near him! What kind of an older brother would I be then?” Julian rounded on him almost instantly, backing the shorter child against the wall.

From the floor next to the spirit, Rick wept, burbling incoherent gibberish.

“Wh-what?” the younger Rick squeaked in surprise.

Julian put his hands on his hips.

“Listen here, Pratt,” he said with some authority, “There’s something awfully queer about you and I won’t have you corrupting Dick and leading him astray! D’you hear?”

Rick had never actually found out how Julian had known his surname.

“I d-don’t understand,” the younger Rick stuttered, now sounding fearful.

“Boys like _you_ shouldn’t be allowed at this school,” Julian emphasised with no small amount of disgust, “I’d wager you probably don’t even own your own private island, do you?”

The contempt; the loathing; the _hatred_ – Rick could picture it all so clearly. It was as if he was still the small boy in the stuffy uniform and Julian was looming at him anew.

“W-well, no but-”

“If you ever come near my brother again, I’ll be forced to tell the headmaster just how _queer_ you are and then you’ll be expelled and sent to one of those dirty, wretched _state_ _schools_ with the rest of the fairies and the _filthy_ underclasses. Do I make myself clear?”

This was a boy who hadn’t even hit his teenage years and yet was already filled with such discriminatory ideals. Within the near breakdown he was having, Rick’s chest filled with unadulterated rage. Somehow, he managed to stand up.

“Yes, Julian,” young Rick was saying rather meekly, his head bowed.

“That’s Kirrin to you, Pratt. We aren’t friends.”

“Y-yes, Kirrin.”

For the love of Cliff Richard, this was _ENOUGH_! By chance, Rick glimpsed the green tip of the shower cap in the spirit’s robes and took his opportunity before it vanished. Perhaps he should have considered it strange – the harm policy withstanding and everything – that the spirit did not fight him as he ripped the soggy accessory from them and walloped it over their incessantly burning flame. Perhaps he should have relished more in the hiss of the fire’s defeat; the surrender of the twelve arms, now limp and inactive.

Perhaps, though this wasn’t within his control, Rick should have tried to stay awake when he was flung through the fabric of time and directly back into his bed.

Only one thing was for definite: The Poltergoost of Christmas Past would haunt him no longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW YOU DID NOT ASK FOR ANY OF THIS, I KNOW! A few points:
> 
> *So apparently I have to make the joke about Rick pretending to have a sister angsty - this wasn't my initial intention. The backstory I came up with is that Mr and Mrs Pratt had a stillborn daughter before they had Rick so, when they had him, they spoiled him rotten and coddled him.  
> *Also I'm sorry if Rick was OOC at any point during this! He's immature and writing about him confronting his feelings and whatnot is hard and feels a little stilted.  
> *Yes, I jumped on that bandwagon and made Vyvyan's mum and Eddie Hitler siblings. Until recently in the UK, if a child was born out of wedlock they had to take their mother's maiden name, meaning Vyv's got his mother's name. Therefore, Eddie and his mum are actually half-siblings, just to complicate the tree further.  
> *The name Pauline comes from the actress for Vyvyan's mum - Pauline Melville.  
> *Irrelevant but I got far too invested and looked up the Christmas edition of The Beano from 1969. Apparently, one came out on 27th December so that's the one Vyvyan gets.  
> *In case you've not seen the priceless hilarity that is The Comic Strip Presents - or if you have but you've only seen Bad News and not Five Go Mad in Dorset/on Mescalin - please do, for your own health. That's what Dick and Julian come from. I'm aware I've probably made Julian in particular even nastier than he was in TCSP and definitely nastier than he was in Blyton's stuff but... oh well.  
> *Shout out to Starryeyedrichie who came up with the name Toffworths!  
> *So many more spin off fics I wanna do...
> 
> Thanks for reading part 2! :)


	3. Stave 3: The Second of the Three Poltergoosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> Oh look, it's April. Whoops! ABC is proving to be a bigger project than I naively first anticipated - there was just no way I could have gotten it all done in the Christmas period with college work piling up too. More recently, the coronavirus has cancelled my exams, meaning I now (theoretically) have much more time to write. So you get this absolute carwreck of an update! XD  
> I won't lie, this is too long. Ridiculously too long. My only flimsy excuse is that Stave 3 of the original is also the longest chapter... although it's not as long as this one. If I wasn't sticking to the five staves format of the original, I swear I would have split this up. I'll fix any grammatical errors in it at a later date though hopefully it isn't complete bollocks, maybe just partial bollocks? Y'know? Anyway, I'm sorry about this chapter for more reasons than length and dubious quality: GET READY FOR MORE PAIN!  
> I hope you enjoy!

Two loud knocks awoke Rick from his slumber. He sat up with a start and gasped, still feeling the pain from his memories at Toffworths aching in his chest.

“Bloody fascist…” he muttered to himself.

There was another knock.

“Rick, man, are you gonna, y’know, come down?” the person on the other side asked, “I get that it’s hard putting on a happy face when you’re feeling depressed – believe me, I know better than anyone in this house, right – but I think hanging around people might actually, like, _help_. Plus, right, I think you and Vyvyan should make up. You created some pretty heavy vibes last night.”

The voice was muffled through the door but it was obviously Neil – the _real_ Neil this time, Rick was certain he had gotten rid of the poltergoost. Besides, he could see that it was light outside. Christmas day had arrived.

“Rick?”

The poet sighed; maybe Fred was losing his touch? Telling his parents that he was gay – even if he hadn’t _really_ told them – had been therapeutic to a degree but it couldn’t make everything magically better. Rick still wasn’t sure if he was ready to see Vyvyan after the previous evening. If possible, he was probably even _less_ sure after witnessing one of the punk’s past Christmases.

“I’m… I’m not feeling well, alright?” Rick lied, coughing for emphasis.

There were a few seconds of silence. Rick coughed again.

“Rick?” Neil called out once more, “You could at least answer me, man.”

What? Had he gone deaf or something?

“I did, you useless hippie!” Rick snapped back with more anger than he was aware he had been feeling.

He got up to open the door and set the record straight. The sound of Neil’s grumbling grew more audible as he got closer, it sounded like he had given up and was heading downstairs. Rick pulled at the door handle, about to deliver a scathing remark, when it jammed. He frowned and tried again – it wouldn’t budge.

“Hey!” he yelled out, hoping to attract Neil’s attention from wherever he was on the staircase, “Oi, I’m trapped in here! Come back and open this door _right now_ , fart-face!”

There was nothing to indicate that Neil had heard him or was returning. Jesus Christ! What a terrific Christmas this was shaping up to be already! Rick was about to give the door a ruddy good kicking when it was unexpectedly yanked open and he was forced to regain his balance – lest he wanted his face to meet the floor again. After a brief wobble, the poet stepped out on to the landing, preparing to lecture Neil for his general stupidity and ability to infuriate him simply by existing in the same universe.

“Nei- _oof_!”

Rick had walked straight into someone tall; it couldn’t have been the target hippie because he wasn’t instantly hit with the smell of lentils and body odour. No, this was someone who cared about the way they dressed. Someone wearing… a silk robe?

“Ah! Rick, isn’t it? Merry Christmas! You know what they say – best time of the year unless you’re a sprout.”

The giant figure put their frighteningly enormous hands on Rick’s shoulders to steady him and offered an easy smile. They were a stranger, for sure, but there was something distinctly familiar about them: dark shades, dark hair, the invasive stench of aftershave that Rick was only now noticing, albeit aftershave that smelt suspiciously of eggnog. The poet furrowed his brow; _another_ poltergoost? A Mike rip off this time? Was it not over?

“Don’t… don’t you mean… unless you’re a turkey?” he replied, at a loss as to what else he could say to this.

“Don’t be stupid, Ricky, everyone has turkey at Christmas. It’s the sprouts that no one likes – they’re unpopular, you see,” the spirit told him knowingly.

Although it was obviously said in jest, Rick still felt his cheeks heat up. He cleared his throat.

“I’m a vegetarian…”

This spirit was different to the last one, _cooler_. They seemed to give off a different energy – the Poltergoost of Christmas Past’s melancholy ooze was in stark opposition to this being’s almost jolly disposition. Their white robe’s blandness was almost _embarrassing_ in comparison to the new spirit’s silk robe. A deep red and trimmed with gold, it was _far_ more stylish. Was that a sprig of holly on the side of their shades, as well?

The spirit nodded at Rick’s statement, not in the least bit perturbed.

“And I’m the Poltergoost of Christmas Present. Pleasure to make my acquaintance, I’m sure.”

They didn’t miss a beat. Under better circumstances, the poet may have scoffed at the lack of originality these poltergoosts seemed to possess where names were concerned. As it was, he felt as though he should be shaking their hand – likely as his was to be crushed inside theirs during this activity – although the spirit had already set off down the stairs. He let his arm drop to his side. Worryingly, the stairs were audibly groaning beneath the spirit’s weight. Unlike their predecessor, this one clearly _didn’t_ float.

“Hold on a ruddy minute!” Rick called after them, “What _exactly_ is going on here? Did you lock me in my bedroom!?”

Now was as good a time as any for him to get over the shock of seeing a being who resembled someone as short as Mike and yet was so ridiculously tall. Back on to the seething indignance he had perfected so effortlessly, Rick hoped. The spirit turned back to him, still smiling.

“Not at all, babes-”

“ _Don’t_ call me that!”

“Is that for Vyvyan’s private usage only, eh?”

At the mention of his boyfriend’s name, Rick blushed all over again and crossed his arms grumpily. What right did these nosy fascists have making comments like that?

“Look – if you’re going to be like the last one you can just about blummin’ well piss off, matey!” Rick snapped.

In all honesty, he felt a tad uneasy insulting this poltergoost… probably due to their _Mikeness_. Why couldn’t they all look like Neil? Rick would have had absolutely no qualms about telling a hundred Neils just where they could stick it!

“Fred was right about you being a bit of a firecracker then,” the poltergoost observed, _still_ smiling.

“Yes, well, it seems _Fred_ has done nothing _but_ gossip about me with you lot!” Rick sneered.

The spirit laughed.

“Don’t be so offended – it might not be his style to say so directly but the fella sees you as the joey to his pouch. Why else would we be here?”

Rick squirmed at the mental imagery but realised a fair point had been made: Fred had always looked out for Rick in his own, _Fred_ way when he had been assigned to him in 1981. The anarchist simply wished the imaginary friend understood boundaries. He rolled his eyes and joined the poltergoost on the stairs and they began to descend.

“Your _friend_ better not be coming back…” he grumbled.

“Past? Oh ho ho, they weren’t too happy with the ol’ shower cap stunt you pulled on them, I’ve got to tell you,” the poltergoost revealed, although Rick detected amusement in their tone.

“Good!” he said.

“Takes them a while to dry off and relight-”

“I don’t care!” Rick interrupted once more, “I just want this day _done with_ so if you’d like to sit quietly in the corner and leave me alone, that would be _great_.”

They reached the bottom of the stairs and Rick’s heartrate spiked momentarily; he could see the back of Vyvyan’s orange tri-hawk over the sofa. Oh _Cliff_. What on earth was he going to say to him!?

 _‘Merry Christmas. I haven’t actually got you a present because I’ve been too busy debating whether we’d still be together by now so_ really _it’s your fault for not dumping me ages ago. This is the Poltergoost of Christmas Present, by the way – my imaginary friend sent them. Oh yes, I have an imaginary friend. I never told you, did I? How silly of me! I’ve always been potty, you see… do you want to break up with me yet? Did you know I spent a portion of last night snooping in one of your past Christmases? Feeling better off on your own now?’_

No, he definitely _shouldn’t_ say any of that. A part of Rick knew he should apologise but he _hated_ apologising, especially when he was in the wrong. It wasn’t as if he could fix things now – he had nothing to give Vyvyan! What a hopeless boyfriend he was. Rick didn’t often think so self-depreciatingly – at least, not anymore – yet there was something intrinsically rotten about this situation that was bringing it out.

 _Anyone would think you_ want _him to end things with you, bottom boil!_

And now his conscience was pitching in; delightful.

“Vyv, I don’t think he’s coming,” Mike’s voice sounded from the kitchen table.

Indeed, when Rick approached the archway to the drawing room, he was greeted with the rather pathetic sight of the cool person reading the papers, Neil making the tea and Kevin- wait, _Kevin_!? Yes, Kevin Turvey in all his blue anoraked glory was still in the house and lining up several mismatched mugs for the hippie to pour the boiling water into. Rick sniffed as if this was the worst thing that could have possibly happened. Everyone ignored his presence.

“No, no – I’m here now, alright?” He sighed in exasperation and groaned, “Merry Christmas, fascists.”

They carried on ignoring him. Rick frowned; wasn’t that a bit petty? It was _Christmas day_ , for Cliff’s sake! Weren’t they all supposed to be in favour of having a good time today!?

“Fine,” Vyvyan said gruffly from the sofa – it took Rick a moment to realise he was addressing Mike.

“But I’m here!” he complained, “This is stupid, not to mention ruddy immature! And what’s Kevin still doing here!?”

The Poltergoost of Christmas Present stepped forth – again, to be completely ignored by everyone barring Rick – and inspected the ratty Christmas tree on display in the drawing room.

“They can’t hear you, Rick,” the spirit informed him casually, “You’re a shadow here; that’s why you couldn’t open your bedroom door.”

Rick went to speak, stopped himself, checked his arms in a panic to make sure they were still there, then marched over to the poltergoost, stopping slightly before he reached them to back away a couple of steps from their immense height.

“Ha! Then why could _you_ open the door?” he demanded, finger pointed accusatorially.

“Because I’m not a shadow on Christmas – Poltergoost of Christmas _Present_ , remember?” the spirit explained. At Rick’s impending outrage, they held up a hand. “They can’t see or hear me either, babes.”

“I told you-”

“I’ve done you a favour though, right? Not five minutes ago you were telling me you want the day done, weren’t you? You don’t have to participate now,” they probed, lifting up their shades to arch an eyebrow.

_What in the name of Cliff ruddy Richard!?_

Honestly, Rick would have screamed at the sight of the poltergoost’s eyes. He was surprised he didn’t. Where expectation had filled in with Mike’s, reality instead comprised of two entirely black eyeballs that had an otherworldly sparkle dancing within them. The spirit glanced meaningfully at the shared house’s tree before slipping their shades back on and Rick watched as the wreck of a festive symbol suddenly gained life anew. Invigorated somehow, fresh pine needles sprouted all over it and baubles Rick had never even seen let alone bought popped into existence on its branches. A miniature angel even sprung up on top.

Naturally, none of the others paid this any mind.

_“WHAT THE RUDDY HECK!?”_

Alright, so maybe he did scream. Luckily, the poltergoost didn’t seem to be offended in any way.

“I forget not all you humans can handle me,” they confessed, “I don’t just wear these to look trendy like your friend here, you know. Actually, you might wanna take a few stems out of Mike’s flowerpot, Ricky.”

Rick’s head bobbed back and forth between the cool person reading at the kitchen table and the poltergoost stood next to the tree with his mouth agape.

“K-keep the shades on… please,” he managed to squeak out, gesturing vaguely at their face.

“What did you all have planned for the big day then?” Kevin unexpectedly delved into the growing silence, unaware that he was saving all four Scumbag students from some considerable awkwardness. “I hadn’t paid much thought to it this year, I suppose – which is unusual for me, to be honest with you – but my mates are all busy with their families. Theresa Kelly’s busy with her family _well_ into the new year… I think she said she was next free in October…”

Kevin would probably _never_ grow out of all this babbling but, for the first time in his life, Rick was grateful that it was a quirk his cousin possessed. He observed apprehensively as Vyvyan – no longer upsettingly thin and downtrodden – stood up and stomped into the kitchen to snatch up one of the mugs Neil was preparing. The punk didn’t answer Kevin, just glared into his tea. Mike folded over his papers and for a split second – it was short but Rick definitely saw it – looked like he couldn’t answer either. However, he managed to come up with something, perhaps to prevent Kevin from going on.

“Kev, to tell you the truth and avoid all lies: I haven’t the foggiest. Neil, any ideas?” he inquired.

Rick scoffed. _Of course_ Kevin had already managed to worm a nickname for himself out of Mike! Bloody cheek…

“Well, like, isn’t Richie Rich meant to be on the telly today?” the hippie ventured.

That was annoying too – Neil looked more chipper than usual. Was he really so pleased that Rick wasn’t there? Charming!

“You know, I think your cousin’s the reason for his happiness actually, Ricky,” the spirit piped up from next to him.

Rick jumped.

“You can read my mind? That’s a bit _pervy_ , isn’t it!?” he complained.

“No mind reading here – you’re just easier to suss out than a book for under 5s.”

Before the poet could defend himself and his apparent emotiveness, Vyvyan slammed his empty mug down on the kitchen table.

“Whatever; sounds good to me,” he agreed rather blandly, dragging himself back to the sofa.

Now, that wasn’t right. Vyvyan _detested_ Richie Rich! Only yesterday he had been incensed by the wanker’s spot on Christmas TV and now he was suddenly ready to watch him in action!? Rick noticed Neil and Mike exchange something akin to a worried glance and felt his stomach churn like it had back in the Basterd house. He edged closer to his boyfriend and the sofa.

“Who’s Richie Rich? I’ve never heard of him,” Kevin asked.

“Oh!” Neil went to answer immediately, “He’s like… well… Mike, how would you describe him?”

“A complete waste of space?” Mike offered casually.

“Yeah. He’s, like, a complete waste of space,” Neil repeated. “Want to watch?”

Rick stopped paying attention to the antics in the kitchen at this point and focused instead on the heap of punk in front of him. His boyfriend was, for the most part, not moving. He was slumped on the far right of the sofa, arms cross, icy gaze fixed on the bottom of the tree. In fact, he was _scowling_ at it. Why? The poet followed his line of vision to the small cluster of presents that had been gathering dust under there for a couple of weeks; maybe nine in total? There wasn’t usually that many but the other three had been childishly insistent on acknowledging each other this year – and acknowledging Rick – not that he had chosen to acknowledge them back.

“Ah,” he remarked feebly, scratching the back of his neck.

There was a small box, messily wrapped in red with a scrap of paper cello taped to the top, resting underneath the tree. If Rick peered hard enough at it, he could just about make out his name in Vyvyan’s atrocious doctor’s scrawl.

Vyvyan had gotten him a present. Oh.

_Well, of course he ruddy did, you absolute moron! That’s what good boyfriends do – or hadn’t you heard? Did all your self-pitying snivels get in the way? Dear, oh dear! It really is pathetic-_

“Shut up, I know!” Rick hissed to himself, “I know.”

The poet turned away from the poltergoost in order to stop them from seeing him wiping at his eyes. He sniffed.

“Is that it, then?” Rick asked bitterly, “Have I ruined Christmas for him… just like his horrid mother did all those years ago?”

He was struggling to keep the tremor from his voice; he hadn’t meant to do that to Vyvyan! Really, _he hadn’t_! Rick had been sure that everyone but himself was going to have a _fine_ time today, even if they _had_ previously been bothered by his sour moods. He hadn’t thought Vyvyan would have minded _this_ much that he was absent; that the emotional wedge between them would have allowed him to drift away from Rick naturally, detach his feelings and move on. That was what was going to happen ultimately, wasn’t it? Why, then, did it feel simultaneously the least and most painful option? Why couldn’t Rick bring himself to change things – to talk to his sodding boyfriend!? It didn’t make _any_ sense!

The only thing that did make sense was how utterly rejected Vyvyan was looking.

“We’ll have to see how things turn out,” the spirit advised Rick, “Though they aren’t looking too hot from what I can see.”

Rick wiped at his eyes again and bent down to touch his gift. Unhappily, his hand passed straight through it. He sighed, wondering fleetingly what is was. The TV flickered on.

“Oh no, man, don’t sit on the rickety chair,” Neil was saying to Kevin, who was about to park his behind on the aforementioned item.

“What’s wrong with it?” Kevin asked, a fraction of the paranoia the poet was accustomed to noticing sharpening in his cousin’s blue eyes.

“He’s just blummin’ told you!” Rick snapped.

“It’s all rickety, man – I’ll sit there,” Neil decided, already getting up from his position between the immovable punk and Mike, who _obviously_ wouldn’t be sitting on the rickety chair.

Why was Neil so desperate to please Kevin? It was truly revolting.

“No, no, that’s alright, Neil,” Kevin instead insisted, apparently calm again, “I’ll sit here… I did sort of gate crash on you all, anyway…” He trailed off a touch sheepishly.

Perhaps he possessed some self-awareness, after all?

Neil sat back down whilst shaking his head. The effect of this motion was an odd one as his hair was too greasy to fly freely and so instead swung about in two, limp clumps. Rick noticed Vyvyan roll his eyes, surely a good sign.

“It’s no problem,” Neil assured Kevin, “It’s the time of year for charity… not that we think you, like, _need_ charity like a beggar or-”

“Neil, would you _shut up_? The bastard’ll be on in a second!”

“Sorry, Vyv…”

Rick started to smirk proudly at his boyfriend’s ability to silence the hopeless hippie but his snide disposition soon faltered when he remembered that Vyvyan likely wanted to do far worse to _him_ than tell him to shut up. His chest ached; cold, empty, longing. The poltergoost only watched him sadly. Rick flicked them a v.

***

“HA HA HA!”

It was quite possible, Rick thought to himself as he felt his consciousness waning, that the only person who had laughed _at all_ during the tedious hour and three quarters that Richie Rich had been on the telly was Richie Rich himself. Rick wasn’t laughing, the poltergoost wasn’t laughing, no one else in the drawing room was laughing – the studio audience _certainly_ weren’t laughing. Dear, oh dear. The pathetic excuse for a comedian appeared to be getting gradually more and more stressed as the show went on, if the sweat glistening on his forehead and his manic smile were anything to go by. _Good_ , Rick thought. It was about ruddy time he realised how talentless he was!

The poet was very nearly about to pass out standing up and flop straight through the Christmas tree next to him. It wasn’t even that he was especially _tired_ ; Richie Rich was just that bad. By the looks of things, the others weren’t faring much better: Neil and Mike both appeared on the edge of sleep, with Mike leant against Neil and the hippie’s left arm hanging loosely over the cool person in a fashion that Rick was sure could only have been accidental… right? Kevin had stopped paying attention to the telly some time ago and had been instead staring down at a particular patch of dirty floorboard with his arms crossed. Rick would have guessed that his cousin _had_ fallen asleep had it not been for his open eyes and the rather vacant, slightly grim expression on his face. Of course, this wasn’t _actually_ the first time Rick had seen Kevin like this – though this didn’t mean he was in any hurry to point it out to the spirit or get to the bottom of it. It freaked him out a little. Was that fair?

Well, was anything ruddy fair these days? It wasn’t just daft Kevin who had to face injustice; at least Rick had never said anything about it.

The Poltergoost of Christmas Present – not that Rick had been paying them much attention – had been gradually making their way around the shared house, adding nauseating festivity wherever it was lacking. And, unsurprisingly, it was lacking _everywhere_. They returned to the archway between the hall and drawing room just in time to see things really kick off. Perhaps they had known?

“Are you all having fun?” a practically frantic Richie Rich addressed the camera, “We’re having buckets of fun here in the studio, aren’t we ladies and gentlemen? _Aren’t we_!? Ha ha ha…”

He was such a smarmy git and Rick knew that Vyvyan couldn’t _stand_ smarmy gits; it was part of why the two of them had been at loggerheads for so long. The poet noticed Kevin look up from the floor in mild confusion before all hell broke loose.

“ENOUGH!!”

Vyvyan was on his feet and the telly was gone. Rick had been keen to avoid watching the punk quietly smouldering away as the programme dragged on but _apparently_ he wouldn’t be able to ignore him anymore.

“Huh?” Neil started with a jump.

He and Mike noticed their somewhat entwined status and hastily separated. The cool person looked up at Vyvyan in shock.

“Vyv, did you just chuck the telly out the window?” he asked incredulously.

“Well, the sort of telly-shaped hole in the window would suggest-” Kevin began, only to be cut off by the simmering punk.

“Yes, Michael, I did! I’m completely bloody sick of poncy, middle class bastards ruining everything!” he ranted, closed fists twitching dangerously. This was _bad_ : Vyvyan was _livid_. As if to illustrate this point further, he exhaled and began aggressively fishing around in his jean pockets. “We have a concert to go to! What are we _doing_ here!?”

The other three glanced at each other warily and all stood up.

“That’s an excellent point, Vyv, glad you made it,” Mike agreed, “You wanna go now then?”

The punk nodded with some vigour and stomped over to the bottom of the staircase.

“Oi, Rick – are you gonna come with us to the concert or are you staying in your room like a selfish wanker?” he hollered up the stairs.

Silence. From not five feet away, a visibly trembling Rick cringed at his boyfriend’s word choice. The spirit drew closer to the volatile pair with an expression as neutral as Switzerland.

“V-Vyv, I-”

But Rick couldn’t answer him.

“That’s what I thought,” Vyvyan remarked bitterly, throwing a spiteful glare in the general direction of Rick’s bedroom, “Merry bloody Christmas to you too, _darling_.”

Rick turned to the poltergoost imploringly, desperately even. This wasn’t right! He’d made a mess of everything and Vyvyan might never forgive him!

“ _Please_! He’s going to break up with me!” the poet wailed, not quite sure what he was begging _for_ exactly.

“I thought you’d already accepted that that was inevitable?” the spirit questioned him.

Rick shook his head – they didn’t understand! He could feel a slight madness coming over him. Cliff, he didn’t want it to end like _this_!

“ _No_! No, I-”

“Are we, like, going then?” Neil interrupted, because Neil was a fascist.

“Yeah, _we’re_ going,” Vyvyan replied. The disinterested, distracted, un-Vyvyan-like tone he had adopted earlier was making another showing. Was this really all because of Rick? He could think of everything and yet nothing to say. Not that it would matter – it wasn’t as if Vyvyan could _hear_ him. The four concert tickets emerged from his boyfriend’s jeans. “Kevin, you can have Rick’s,” the punk stated, unable to hide the slight irritation from his voice.

Kevin, to his credit, did have the decency to look a trifle embarrassed.

“Thanks, Vyvyan… can I ask – who are we going to see?”

Vyvyan didn’t answer him. He was already stonking towards the front door… or, rather, the front door and planks of wood Rick would have gotten to see Neil and Kevin pile against the archway before going to bed last night, had he not departed from their company some considerable time earlier.

“I can do that inquiry justice,” Mike piped up as he went to grab his coat, “Some silly heavy metal band called Bad News. Vyv and I thought it’d be a laugh.”

Hearing this made Rick’s already thoroughly upset stomach begin the churning process all over again. Blummin’ Christ, he had to make this up to Vyvyan in some way – but _how_!? The poltergoost shrugged at him coolly, clearly reading Rick once more and being neither helpful nor useful.

“The day is still young, babes,” they reminded him.

Rick scowled.

Meanwhile, Kevin had been nodding pensively at Mike’s words, as if Bad News were a vital piece of information he would store in his mind for years to come. As Kevin pondered, a beige scarf was flung at Neil from the cool person in the hall and the hippie wrapped it solemnly around his neck and hair.

“I hope they’re not _too_ heavy, though,” he moaned in his typically pessimistic way.

Despite his refusal to even consider going out the day before, Rick rolled his eyes.

“If they weren’t heavy then they’d have to rebrand, wouldn’t they?” Kevin pointed out, “Although, I suppose ‘completely weightless metal’ or ‘slightly but not too much heavy metal’ wouldn’t sound as good, they don’t have the same ring to them… it’s all in the advertising… I think that’s why Keith’s musical career hasn’t ever really taken off…”

It was almost unbelievable that Neil found this inane rambling interesting. Maybe boring people just flocked to one another naturally? It didn’t explain why Rick of all people had been landed with the two of them but he supposed only Cliff could know the answers to some things. Without thinking, he went to follow the concert-goers out to their gig. He was obviously going to have to endure Bad News as well.

“The Christmas decs aren’t half bad this year, Neil,” Mike was heard remarking on their way down the front path to Codrington Road.

There was a brief flicker of puzzlement on the hippie’s face.

“Oh… thanks, Mike,” he told him.

The three of them set off along the street with Rick hovering behind moodily. Sludge crunched and slopped below the feet of those ahead, darkening already to the depressing tones of grey British winters were known for. A distinct, doc martened trail was cut into the path before them and if Rick willed himself to stare far enough along, the orange of Vyvyan was visible, as were the puffs of dragon like steam he was breathing out.

“You Tory fraud artist, Neil, pretending you made the house look all nice,” Rick muttered under his breath, “Next you’ll be smuggling trillions overseas, won’t you?”

Quite unnoticed, the Poltergoost of Christmas Present’s jet-black hair gained its first streaks of frosty white. They smiled and, behind the shades, their strange eyes crinkled – aging only worried humans, after all.

***

It took the group considerably longer to reach Soho – which was where the gig was being held – than it would have done normally, what with Christmas day and limited public transport availability. Luckily, time wasn’t a massive issue as the concert didn’t start until the evening. In fact, without the young ones’ and Kevin’s arrival it probably wouldn’t have started at all; apart from themselves, the only other foolish punters appeared to be two rather greasy drunk blokes who disappeared from the pit into the men’s lavvies with about twenty-seven pints each before the band had even arrived onstage.

Yes, the venue was just _charming_.

Sleazy was more the word for it – and Rick had told the spirit as much while they followed the others through the dimly lit entrance way. Indeed, the bouncers on the doors had looked particularly sketchy as they checked over the tickets Vyvyan thrust into their faces. The shifty looks they gave the surrounding street outside suggested to the poet that this concert arrangement may not have been _entirely_ above board. Typical. He supposed it was a bit anarchic but was it really worth it if Bad News turned out to be crap?

“I don’t know if _morally_ , right, I should be in here,” Neil moaned from besides the bar where they were now waiting to be served.

“Relax, Neil, it’s not a strip club today,” Mike reassured him.

That was right: not only were these Bad News fellows not well-known enough to secure a gig on a proper day, they were also the kind of band that had to take work wherever they could find it. Hence the strip club in Soho.

“Oh, so that’s what the poles are for!” Kevin laughed, turning to stare at one in the middle of the pit as if it was a grand work of architecture.

Rick face palmed.

A bartender appeared, having finally been set free from the two drunks in the lavy. Vyvyan started growling out an order to him, which the poor fellow, clearly unnerved, followed out as quickly as possible. Rick didn’t like the look in Vyvyan’s eyes; it was dark and that darkness had nothing to do with the poor lighting.

“Did you get a look at the tickets at all, Ricky?” the poltergoost asked him, already preoccupied with conjuring red and green tinsel around the various strip poles.

“No, why would I have?” Rick fired back.

Curiosity got the better of him and the poet fast found himself peering over Vyvyan’s shoulder at the assortment of tickets sat next to his rapidly depleting babycham. Actually, his _dangerously_ rapidly depleting babycham. Rick wished he could whack his boyfriend around the head and get him to at least eat a packet of nuts; anyone who knew Vyvyan Basterd was well aware of the strangely speedy results babycham yielded from him.

But the tickets… oh no.

_SINGLE: ADMITS ONE (1) ADULT TO SEE “BAD NEWS”  
25.12.84  
OPEN BAR! THE DRINKS ARE ON BAD NEWS (JUST DON’T TELL THEM)!_

“I’ll have another!” Vyvyan announced to Rick’s mounting dread, “And a pint of lager. Those couple of gits didn’t dry you out, did they?”

The bartender shook his head nervously at the suddenly madly grinning punk.

“Brilliant!”

“You stupid, stupid bastard, Vyv!” Rick hissed uselessly at him.

He was more upset than he was angry – it wasn’t as if he had the high ground he needed to be mad at Vyvyan right now, anyway. If the punk was going to use the concert as an excuse to get wasted all because of Rick… well, that just didn’t sit right with him. Surely the others would moderate him?

“Steady there, Vyvyan,” Mike warned, as if on cue.

Everyone else was still nursing their first pints, sensibly choosing not to binge on an empty stomach in the middle of what was ordinarily a strip club. Vyvyan dismissed the cool person’s concerns with a wave of the hand.

“It’s _fine_ , Michael,” he lied unconvincingly, “I’m just trying to have a good time.”

“A good time indeed!” Rick muttered stroppily. He marched over to the spirit, who was now lighting fairy lights from nowhere along the edge of the stage. “There must be something you can do! What’s the ruddy point of you if there’s not!?” he fumed.

The spirit shook their head, still astoundingly unoffended by Rick’s appalling manners.

“It’s not my job to interfere,” they explained.

“But you keep making everything all horrible and Christmassey!”

“So?”

Rick groaned loudly – trust a poltergoost to not understand irony. He was about to go off on one and lecture them about how hypocritical and bloody stupid their line of work was when there was a screech of static and Rick had to cover his ears in pain.

“Hello, Soho!” a ridiculously un-synced litany of voices all but yelled over the main speakers, “We are the four horsemen of the rock apocalypse, leaders and saviours of the wild ride to oblivion and ecstasy… we are: _Bad News_!”

It was cringey, their introduction. Even more so when the four members of Bad News rushed onstage – long hair, leather, metal, the full Monty – and no one so much as batted an eyelid at them. At the back, by the bar, Neil and Kevin were engaged in some kind of conversation about Cliff knew what drivel; Vyvyan had his back to the stage, drinking steadily; as for Mike, whilst he _was_ facing the stage from his stool, it was hard to say whether he was truly paying Bad News any attention behind his shades. Rick was not majorly impressed. Neither, it occurred, was the extravagantly dressed bassist.

“I thought you’d said we’d sold more tickets than this!” he stage-whispered at the lead.

It was screamingly obvious who the lead was – not due to any distinguishable stage presence he had or the fact that he was the only blonde of the band – because he was parading around at the front like a gigantic narcissist. He had the kind of face that deserved a punch. Or, at least, Rick thought he did, especially that wispy moustache. He was grinning at the pathetic lack of an audience as if this was a full house. Completely delusional!

“What? We’re still getting paid, right? Because I’m not playing if we’re not getting paid,” another member, tall with curly hair and a guitar, complained to him.

“Shut up, Colin!” the lead snapped back at the bassist.

Colin’s face, affronted beneath the excruciatingly thick layers of makeup he was wearing, pulled downwards in a childish pout.

“We’ve been over this, Alan – you just _can’t_ speak to me like that in front of… of the fans…” he sniffed melodramatically, faltering at the end.

Honestly, Rick did have to wonder what _fans_ these people could possibly have. They had only been on thirty seconds and he already hated them!

“It’s _Vim_ -”

“Guys, maybe we should get on with the show, yeah?”

Thankfully, the drummer amongst them had remembered what they were supposed to be doing. Colin rolled his eyes and took an odd hold of his bass.

“Yes, what _would_ the masses think if we didn’t? Go on, Vimto, go on – we haven’t got all day!” he sneered.

Rick watched the two heavy metal posers exchange murderous snarls before _Vimto_ grabbed his microphone and deafened the poet’s ears once again.

“MY NAME IS VIM FUEGO!” he sang at full volume, shortly followed by a guitar solo that had the other three members yawning as they waited for it to end, “I LET MY GUITAR SPEAK FOR ME!”

“And I know _just_ where I’d like to stick your ruddy guitar!” Rick grumbled.

Amazingly, the four at the back of the pit _still_ weren’t biting. Vim finally seemed to acknowledge this with a slight, awkward tap on the mic.

“Yeah, well – this is Colin Grigson on bass, Den Dennis on rhythm guitar and that’s Spider Webb on the drums and _we are_ _Bad News_.” He glossed over his bandmates quickly. “Merry Christmas. A one, two, three, four!”

If being side lined had pissed off any of them – namely: Colin – they didn’t have the chance to complain. Vim promptly launched into a song and they were left playing catchup. Scoffing and still holding his fingers in his ears, Rick hurried away from “the four horsemen of the rock apocalypse” as quickly as he could.

_Fires of hell! Doomsday bell!  
Prison cell! Bloody hell!  
On my masturbike…_

Perhaps a part of Rick would have found the lyrics amusing if they hadn’t been so bloody awful – after all, lot of them were rather _dirty_ and Rick couldn’t fool anybody as a prude. Vulgar phrases had been thrown together at random, it sounded like, in the hope that some would rhyme and make a modicum of sense. Or maybe not. Rick was all for smashing conventions and sticking it to the old people and their boring tunes but this wasn’t good. It was blummin’ _bollocks_ , actually. Naturally, of course, Colin’s feeble attempts at playing the bass weren’t exactly helping. If only the world could be as talented as the People’s Poet… though then there wouldn’t be much point in Rick being the People’s Poet, would there? Maybe it was best that Bad News were bollocks.

_See the cat, on the mat  
See the cat, it has shat  
Look out we’re going to hell…_

On the other hand, Rick’s eardrums begged to differ.

“Bum-face!” The severity of Vyvyan’s slurred speech shocked Rick somewhat as he drew closer to him and away from the racket onstage. His boyfriend was surrounded by an impossible number of empty beer glasses, an exasperated Mike looking on in concern. Vyvyan thumped the bar. “I wan’ another one, alrigh’?” he hollered.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough for now, Vyv?” Mike tried, “The tap’ll still be dripping in a few hours.”

Vyvyan shook his head sluggishly.

“No, no – more now!” he demanded.

The cowardly wimp behind the bar obliged unquestioning, Rick noticed with a sneer of contempt. It was as if it was this man’s job to get Vyvyan completely pissed out of his head or something! Rick sighed.

“I’ll make this up to you, I will,” he told the punk quietly, far too quietly to be heard over Bad News even if he hadn’t been a shadow.

And he meant it. Rick wasn’t sure what the ruddy heck he was going to do but – in that moment – he knew he had to do _something_. Could they still salvage their relationship? For an instant, through those few words, Rick chose to ignore the hows and the impossibilities of the situation; he chose to ignore the complexity attached to his parents. Vyvyan was here. Now. Right in front of him. This was a problem Rick _could_ do something about. Well, as soon as the fascist poltergoost buggered off, that was.

It was an odd, short moment of clarity.

Intrigued, the spirit watched the sobered poet from their spot by the stage. Anyone else would have been physically incapable of hearing Rick; the Poltergoost of Christmas Present wasn’t simply anyone.

_Eat my brain! Go insane!  
Eat my brain! Go insane!  
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!_

“Oh, wow. They’re just as heavy as I thought they’d be,” Neil could be heard saying – _just_.

The hippie had gotten himself some cheese and onion crisps at one point or another and was sharing the packet with Kevin. As they munched, prattling on about dull things that the likes Rick couldn’t have paid proper attention to even if he’d been offered the chance to take down Thatcher, Bad News soldiered on with their horrors. Their first song ended before it had run its course, with Vim spending the next couple of minutes calling the other members a selection of colourful names that a BBC sitcom could _not_ have justified broadcasting. Just as they were gearing up for their second attempt at performing something akin to music, Kevin decided it was time to make another observation.

“D’you think it might help if some of us got up to dance?” he asked.

Neil shrugged.

“I don’t know, man. Vyv doesn’t exactly look in dancing condition…”

The two of them glanced over at the punk, who was practically swaying on his stool. They weren’t aware of Rick but if they had been then they would have seen the desperate poet flitting around him like a moth to the flame. It wasn’t easy for him to go unnoticed for so long when a situation this chaotic was unfolding right before his eyes. Mike was surreptitiously moving as many of Vyvyan’s lagers and babychams out of reach as he was able though it was a task fought in vain as Vyvyan was already _gone_.

“I know,” Kevin agreed, a note of concern lacing his tone, “Maybe just us two could do it then?”

“What, like, you and me?”

Kevin nodded.

_I’m a warrior, the blood won’t wash away  
I’m a warrior, I’ll kill myself one day…_

The empty pit was looking suspiciously festive, which everyone barring Rick dismissed; it must have been this festive earlier and they simply hadn’t noticed. It wasn’t as if anyone had been in to do anything, was it? Either way, the excessive amounts of tinsel, fairy lights, little stars and the couple of Christmas trees below both ends of the stage did create a more encouraging atmosphere for dancers. Rick knew something unusual was about to happen when he spotted Neil _smiling_. _Again_.

“What in the-”

Kevin and the hippie were on their feet and strolling casually into the middle of the pit. Bad News appeared to notice the approaching figures and started playing their instruments a little more forcefully, with a distinct urgency to impress. If Rick wasn’t mistaken – and Rick very rarely was mistaken about things, thank you very much – Vim’s voice cracked momentarily in surprise. Unfortunately, greater vigour didn’t equivalate to a greater quality of music.

_Burning, looting, raping, shooting…_

The _dancing_ , if it could be called that, began just as Vim went to repeat his lovely set of lyrics. Rick’s focus was snapped firmly from his spiralling boyfriend and on to his cousin and least favourite housemate in a mixture of disbelief and second-hand embarrassment at the spectacle. Most concerning was the way Mike’s and the poltergoost’s faces broke out into identical grins at the same time.

At complete contrast to the song’s rhythm and style, Neil started waving his arms and legs around slowly as if he was having some sort of psychedelic experience. His eyes were shut, his face the picture of concentration – perhaps he was concentrating on blocking out Bad News. Rick cringed as he watched the band members peer at him in confusion. Obviously, whatever reaction to their music they had been expecting, it hadn’t been _that_.

“Yeah!” Kevin cheered.

He too broke out some moves… if the definition of moves was jumping up and down, not at all in time to the beat, like a human pogo stick.

Indeed, the mere sight of this was so distracting that Colin hadn’t yet realised his hand had strayed and he was now strumming thin air rather than his bass. There were a few painful seconds where Rick worried that the whole concert was about to screech to a halt and several fights break out, which would have been _all_ they needed! Thankfully, from his position at the back of the stage, Spider let out an unnervingly high-pitched laugh and started drumming harder than before. Suddenly, the band resembled dominos clobbering their act back together: Colin immediately jumped like a frightened, extraordinarily done-up lamb and slapped his hand back on to his bass; Den shrugged passively and continued playing as if everything was normal; Vim coughed, averted his gaze from the two dancing fools and hollered out the next line.

_All this I do, I’d kill for you!_

“Having fun, Ricky?” the poltergoost asked from beside him.

How they had gotten there was anyone’s guess.

“ _Wood and Walters!_ ” Rick yelped in shock. He fumed at the spirit, “No, I bloody well am not! Look at him – look at the _state_ of him! Is this what ‘ _fun’_ looks like to you!?”

Vyvyan was getting worse by the _minute_! They probably hadn’t even been in here an hour! If the bartender had looked nervous before he was quite terrified now. Terrified – yet still capable of dishing out more and more pints. The bar was littered with them, barely the dregs left at the bottom of each one. Vyvyan’s face was a disturbing mixture of sickly green and drinker’s red; in better circumstances someone could have made a joke about him matching the seasonal colour scheme.

But this really wasn’t the time for that.

The poltergoost never replied to Rick, instead distracted by Mike’s unexpected clapping as the song came to a close. Up onstage, Vim grinned as if this was a standing ovation and Colin inclined his head with a smug smile of fake modesty. Strangely, Neil and Kevin didn’t stop dancing.

“Alright! Well, as it’s Christmas day and all, how’s about we play you our new Christmas single?” Vim asked, something excited glinting in his eyes. There wasn’t much of a reaction but this didn’t seem to matter. He turned to face Colin, blonde hair whipping round with him, “Think you can handle that?” he sneered.

“Oh, ha ha!” Colin sniffed indignantly, “Just get on with it…”

The band started playing what was evidently called _Cashing in on Christmas_ – a pro-capitalist cacophony of a song that made Rick’s blood boil.

“Fascists!” he grumbled, “And you! Stop staring at Michael like he’s the new Messiah! What are we going to do about Vyvyan!?”

The poltergoost patted Rick on the back – which almost knocked him over – and shrugged apologetically.

“Sorry, babes, but you know there’s nothing I can do,” they reminded him.

“So you keep saying!” Rick challenged back, “And stop calling me that!”

“I keep saying it because it’s true, _babes_.”

How the spirit had the audacity to smile conspiratorially at Rick after that comment was beyond him. It was only the intervention of Mike in his boyfriend’s drinking affairs that stopped the poet from blowing his stack… and not in the good way.

“Woah, Vyvyan! Come on now – that’s enough! You look worse than those two blokes in the lavs!” he chastised, taking the latest babycham from the punk and setting it down, out of reach, with a note of finality.

Vyvyan’s hand, which had been shaking and causing the drink to slosh around in its glass, continued to quiver by itself. He stood up rather abruptly – Mike, Rick and perhaps even the poltergoost jumped. Using the bar as a support system, Vyvyan slowly dragged himself to his full height and grunted with the effort.

“Thanks, Mike…” he slurred.

There was sarcasm on his breath; this was the first sign of trouble as _no one_ was afforded the privilege of being sarcastic to Mike the Cool Person. The next sign was the ridiculous wink he sent Mike and the start of his meandering amble towards the stage. Considering how drunk Vyvyan was, it was frankly alarming that he was able to walk at all, let alone at the pace he had adopted. Rick’s eyes bulged.

“Vyv? Vyvyan? Vyv, just what do you think you’re doing?” Mike called after him somewhat desperately.

There was no answer.

Neil and Kevin quickly took notice of Vyvyan’s plight as he passed them in the pit.

“Oh – hi, Vyv!”

“Hello, Vyvyan!”

They got no answer either. Evidently, he wasn’t there to dance. Instead, the punk carried on, almost as if he hadn’t heard the two of them… which, Rick had to admit, wasn’t actually so unlikely considering the heavy metal band playing.

“What’s he doing?” the poet muttered to no one in particular, hurrying over after him, “You’re going to hurt yourself, you blummin’ stupid…”

He couldn’t come up with a suitable insult, not with all the guilt that would go with it.

When Vyvyan reached the edge of the stage – a feat that hadn’t taken nearly as long as it should have done – it took him a few seconds to compute what was going on. His face scrunched up in the drunk version of the facial expression that Rick usually found rudely endearing. Now, however, it just looked iffy.

Quite suddenly, the punk’s unsteady gaze latched on to… Colin? Colin who, though his bass playing hadn’t improved one bit, was seemingly enjoying himself a damn sight more than he had been not ten minutes ago. He kept flicking his tongue out and wiggling it about, which must have been some sort of indication of happiness and pleasure, Rick presumed. In fact, arguably all of Bad News were enjoying themselves now – even Den and his perpetually pissed off demeanour had lightened. Colin, himself, hadn’t even spotted Vyvyan staring at him from below. Well, it was more of a _glare_ , really. A droplet of sweat trickled down the back of Rick’s neck.

Oh _Cliff_. He knew that look! He should do – he had been on the receiving end of it enough times! But why Colin?

And just as Rick had predicted in the milliseconds before it happened, Vyvyan catapulted himself onstage. It was a great lunge towards the bassist; it must have taken everything the punk had in him in his current state to execute it as well as he did.

_“ARRGGHHHHHHHHH!!!”_

_“AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”_

Somehow Vyvyan had succeeded not only in propelling himself at Colin, but at grabbing and taking him down too. It was an action that a momentary blink would have caused an onlooker to miss, an almost unreal turn of events. Everything had been starting to perk up, hadn’t it!? Not for Vyvyan, that much was obvious, and Rick knew it. There was no ending scenario in which this went well. Colin’s bass went soaring offstage and the music shuddered to a standstill.

“Get _off_ me!”

Colin was practically wailing, absolutely hysterical, beneath the punk. The initial shock of being tackled must have soon given way to fear at what Vyvyan was planning next. There was so much thrashing that Rick was hard pressed to tell what was actually going on and who was pummelling who. That said – if Colin’s shrieks and cries of pain were anything to go by – he was fairly certain he knew who was winning their impromptu brawl. This was quite terrifying to behold: Vyvyan Basterd had well and truly lost it.

“No, no! Stop it, Vyvyan! Stop it!” someone yelled.

It could have been Rick. Or Mike. Or even Neil. Probably not Kevin. Maybe it was all of them.

“Help! Someone help me! _Please_! He’s trying to- _argh_! He’s trying to _kill_ _me_!” Colin screamed. He sounded like he was crying, although Rick couldn’t see his face properly. “Vim! Vim! ALAN!”

Amidst the chaos, the poet edged closer to the fighting pair. He was almost wary, not wanting one of their free flying arms or legs to spontaneously take a trip through his face before he had the time to dodge aside. Truth be told, this felt… different. Usually when Vyvyan attacked someone it was quick and impersonal, humorous even. This wasn’t the same; this wasn’t quick or impersonal – Vyvyan was beating the daft bassist to a bloody pulp and he didn’t seem intent on stopping. Ever!

“Oh, Vyv, please…” Rick found himself mumbling, anxiety and that familiar guilt clenching at his innards, “Please, just stop it!”

He didn’t want to be the reason Vyvyan gave into whatever sadistic, destructive streak he possessed! He didn’t want to watch him get locked up! He was _not_ dating a real psychopath… was he?

“Ow! OW!”

Colin’s attempts at protecting himself from the tirade of violence were proving to be quite fruitless. His makeup, Rick could see, was thoroughly smeared and now coating Vyvyan’s fists. Despite his scrambling, kicking and hitting at the punk, it was as if Vyvyan was immune to the sensation. Immune to the pain. Well, that couldn’t be true. Not when Rick got close enough to hear that his boyfriend was muttering something.

“-complete bastard, Rick! ‘m I no’ good enough for you, is tha’ it? Hmm? Just can’ do anything bloody _right_! Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!” he ranted, punctuating certain words with fresh attacks on Colin’s face.

It was almost as if he was telling him off. His voice, through the drunkenness, was thick and hoarse – was he crying? What on earth-

“Ruddy heck!” Rick exclaimed in sudden realisation.

Vyvyan thought this tosser was him! Rick! Could people stop faintly resembling him? It was getting ridiculous, not to mention frustrating! Stupid, drunk Vyvyan- no, now wasn’t the time.

Rick’s realisation coincided with the black, curly mop of hair on Colin’s head being ripped off, exposing its rather obvious status as a wig along with the real shorter brown hair the bassist possessed underneath it. This seemed to be the last straw for Colin, who let out a final shriek of protest.

“ALAN METCALFE, YOU SON OF A-”

“Alright, alright – you’ve had your fun, mate.”

Thankfully, after standing there, pointing and laughing for some time, Vim had the inclination to haul Vyvyan off Colin. Rick nervously suspected that he was only able to do this because the punk was so drunk and disorientated and likely wouldn’t have expected the yank, even if Vim had warned him nicely beforehand. In a more sober world, it was likely another fight would have broken out. Vim and Den, back to his grumpiness, pushed Vyvyan roughly from the stage, where he landed in a heap at Mike, Neil and Kevin’s feet. The three of them had seemingly gathered sometime after Rick’s frantic following of Vyvyan but had been notably just as useless as him in stopping him. Perhaps more so, considering they actually _could_ have done something.

“Neil, I told you to go up there and get him thirty seconds ago!”

“But it was really heavy, man, I can’t get involved in stuff like that!”

“Is he alright down there?”

There was a dramatic gasp for air from onstage.

“ _Is he alright_!? I hope he dies!” Colin spat, “Horribly!”

The blubbering wreck of heavy metal bassist was still quivering and sobbing like his life depended on it, only just bringing himself to sit up. Honestly, regarding the fact that Vyvyan had thought Rick was the one he was beating, the poet did have to feel a little bad for him. And a little relieved – the selfish part of him, at least. Rick was sure his cheeks must have lost all their blood after witnessing such a nasty fracas.

It was all his fault, wasn’t it? All his blummin’ fault!

“Great – things have gotten so bad I’m feeling sorry for divas!” he warbled.

“They say finding common ground with people is a good start for sympathy,” the poltergoost interjected from the middle of the pit, where little bells were now hanging off the strip pole tinsel.

Apparently, they had decided now was the time for sagely advice.

“Common ground?” Rick scoffed, “Are you- are you calling _me_ a _diva_!?”

A preposterous accusation!

“Am I?”

Rick sighed curtly; there simply wasn’t the time for this being’s outlandish nonsense! Did they not realise Vyvyan had just attacked one of the performers in a Soho strip club!? Because of Rick!?

“Are you okay, Col?” Spider asked.

The drummer was helping Colin to stand, looking mostly out of it but with a reasonable dollop of concern. Now that he wasn’t splayed out like some kind of wounded animal, Rick could only wince at the damage Vyvyan had done: there was blood, _of course_ there was blood. Most of it was coming out of Colin’s nose and bust lip, with a few scratches around his face adding to the gruesome display. One of his eyes already looked swollen and his wig – forced back on in some vain attempt at dignity – was all awry. Unsurprisingly, the makeup that Vyvyan hadn’t ruined with his handiwork was smudged down Colin’s cheeks in long, angry tear tracks. He was _not_ happy.

“No, I’m not! Christmas is completely ruined!” he told Spider, turning to glower in Vyvyan’s general direction as well as one could do in his condition, bloodied lip curling in contempt, “And I’m not _Rick_ – whoever _he_ is – I don’t associate with working class thugs!”

Spider’s brow furrowed.

“Now, that’s not strictly true, is it? You associate with us.”

Before Rick had the chance to vocalise his outrage at Colin’s slur against his boyfriend, though justified it may have been in the moment, Vyvyan threw up across the three pairs of feet at the foot of the stage.

“Oh no, bad karma!” Neil complained, moving away from him and trying to kick the fresh vomit from his shoes.

Mike and Kevin winced. The smell was truly wretched.

“Nice, yeah – and I suppose we’ve got to pay to clean that up, have we?” Den grumbled, “I thought you said doing a gig on Christmas would be good for business, Vim, not cost us all the money we’ve earnt from it.”

Timing impeccable as always, Mike interrupted with a cough.

“Actually, lads,” he spoke up, stepping out of Vyvyan’s vomit puddle and readjusting his shades, “I hate to be the one to break this to you but, seeing as my friend here’s-”

“Beat the shit out of Colin?” Vim offered.

“ _Vim_!” Colin hissed at him, dabbing at his nose with a dirty tissue from Spider and whimpering.

“Yeah, since he’s done that… which I’m sorry about, uh, Colin… you should know that the four of you are also paying for the bar.”

There were a few seconds of thick silence.

“ _WHAT_!?”

“If you think I’m paying for that _hooligan’s_ drinks you can jolly well think again!” Colin ranted, furious with disbelief.

“That’s perfectly understandable,” Mike admitted, “But it’s on the tickets. Someone’s hung you boys out to dry!”

Something in Vim’s moustache bristled, perhaps in reaction to the increasingly dour dispositions of his bandmates. Rick certainly didn’t envy him at the moment… come to think of it, there wasn’t anyone here he envied at the moment! Not even Mike! His concern quickly flitted to Vyvyan and he found the punk crying softly in the middle of his own mess. Oh Cliff, if only there was some way he could make this all better _now_ ; if only he could console him and it would all be fixed.

_Ha! As if he’s ever going to want to see your ugly face again, stupid!_

Rick shook off his conscience angrily.

“Oh, Vyv…”

“Right, well, maybe you lot can pay us damages then,” Vim was saying to Mike, obviously trying to sound assertive and threatening, “Colin’s nose might never look the same.”

“That’s righ- wait, _WHAT_!?”

Colin promptly burst into tears again and nigh on collapsed on to Spider, who had the unlucky job of trying to soothe him. Frankly, he was shaking so violently that it was a wonder Spider was able to hold both of them up. After taking a second or two to get his balance properly, he cautiously rubbed Colin’s back and offered him another manky tissue.

“There, there…”

Den rolled his eyes and took an aggressive step towards the edge of the stage.

“Are you gonna pay up or what?” he asked Mike.

The cool person, always one to know when a fight could be won and when it was time for the white flag and a swift apology, held his hands up.

“Hey, now – that’s entirely reasonable. I’ve got a bit of cash on me, alright? Just give us a minute…”

Actually, Rick wasn’t sure how true this statement was; he didn’t recall Mike picking up his wallet before leaving earlier. A short glance the jerky way he was checking his pockets confirmed these suspicions – Mike was bluffing! How were they going to get out of this!? Was there going to be _anyone_ left for Rick to try and apologise to!?

Luckily – or unluckily as some may have seen it – Kevin Turvey was there. It was clear he hadn’t been paying much attention to what was being said nor the atmosphere because he didn’t look semi-terrified like Neil or have a bulging vein in his forehead like Mike. Of course, the less mentioned about Vyvyan’s state of being the better. No, despite the vomit on his shoes, Kevin was the unlikely pillar of calm amongst the hordes of chaos… which was probably why he said what he did next.

“Y’know, I don’t think even Vyvyan drank as much as those other two…” he remarked with almost ironic casualness.

To whom? This wasn’t something Rick could figure out. Neither was _why_ Kevin had decided that this was the time for him to voice his opinion. Rick could have gone his whole life without ever hearing his cousin’s opinion and been content. The four members of Bad News as well as two of the young ones’ heads instantly snapped Kevin’s way.

“What other two?” Vim demanded edgily.

Kevin, naturally, wasn’t as bothered by the singer’s hostile tone as he should have been. Or maybe he was. Maybe he was actually being really clever. Rick would have preferred to believe that the good fortune he was about to bring his housemates was purely a fluke but then this was a world without justice.

“Well, mate, they’re in the toilets with a _whole brewery’s_ supply of lager,” Kevin revealed, laughing a little as if this was funny.

Several sets of eyes widened simultaneously.

“A whole- bloody hell! Bloody _fucking_ hell!” Vim roared, kicking his mic stand aside, “Where’s the guy who owns this place? _Where is he_!? We were only getting a fiver each for this!”

Spider, Den and Colin, who had thus far been listening to Kevin with a sense of paralytic horror, suddenly rediscovered their voices. And they had very loud voices.

“ _ONLY A FIVER EACH_!?”

This was turning out to be quite the stinker of a day.

Bad News began bickering – an underexaggerated way of describing the shouting match that hastily erupted. In fact, Den and Vim appeared on the edge of coming to blows; Colin was still lamenting woefully about what a simply awful, horrible time he was having whilst Spider patted his back, disgruntled and fists twitching. The band’s instruments weren’t safe. Gobsmacked and mightily paler than usual, Mike glanced over at Kevin.

“Sharp thinking, Kev!” he praised him, sounding every bit as astonished as he looked.

Kevin smiled as though he was surprised.

“Oh! Thanks, Mike!”

Still chipper. Bastard. Rick was going to have to find some way of toppling Kevin to restore his place in the pecking order.

The group’s attention turned to Vyvyan. The punk hadn’t moved much, continuing to wallow in his vomit as if he was at death’s door. Mike motioned for assistance.

“Quick! Grab Vyvyan – we’ve got to go!” he urged the other two.

One sticky arm for Neil and one for Kevin were lifted up and hooked around their respective shoulders, to the accompaniment of several groans. Fortunately, Vyvyan didn’t try to fight them, instead letting his head loll forwards at an uncomfortably crooked angle – Neil was considerably taller than Kevin, after all.

“But, Mike, what about the money?” the hippie asked anxiously.

“There isn’t any money!” Mike spoke briskly, trying to keep his cool amidst fears that the angry band on stage may soon notice their activities. “We’ve got to go _now_!”

The thumping of Rick’s heart in his chest was painful as he watched the three of them make their escape, dragging Vyvyan across the pit with them and towards the exit as fast as they could. To the poet’s supreme relief, they managed to sneak out long before Bad News noticed their absence – Rick himself didn’t know for sure when the band noticed they were alone for he didn’t fancy hanging around to find out, instead darting after the getaway party, presuming that the poltergoost would follow him.

However, if he had stayed, Rick would have been relieved to witness the four bandmates’ rather harmless reactions when, after eight and half minutes of rowing, they realised what had happened. What was a round of insults when everyone was safely out of reach? Den took it upon himself to raid the men’s toilets for the drunks who were surely costing Bad News a small fortune. His success in this endeavour was… more complicated.

It was a failure. He failed.

***

The streets were less friendly on the way home and Rick was all the more vigilant for it, despite being the one in the least amount of possible danger. The winter sun had set at its early hour and in doing so had invited the biting cold and a sense of gloom to the streets of London. The slippery icy sludge was that bit sneakier in the darkness and the shadows were monumentally more vengeful; the morale of everyone involved was suffering. Carrying Vyvyan from the west end of the city to the north was no easy task, especially when they had to stop at least twice and let him vomit.

The poltergoost too seemed more sombre – not that Rick particularly cared about them – which highlighted the inexplicable way in which their appearance had shifted. It was subtle: the resemblance to Mike was still there though now it was a Mike substantially more worn than the one leading the group home. Still, Rick figured he could brush this abnormality aside for the time being.

“What were you thinking, Vyv?” the real Mike finally asked as they turned, exhausted, on to Codrington Road.

It was the question on everybody’s lips and the question everybody already knew the answer to. Mike didn’t even sound annoyed when he asked it. He really didn’t. There was a disappointment there definitely but then it had been a disappointing day. No one had said anything throughout their journey home so the sound of the cool person’s voice was in stark contrast to the foreboding silence. Rick’s stomach twisted with dread.

At first, Vyvyan only snivelled. Mike let out a sigh that personified itself in the wisp of visible breath that danced over his head; he wasn’t going to push it.

“I’m s-sorry, Michael… you warned me and I didn’t listen…”

The eventual confession from Vyvyan was a choked-out sob. It was raspy, weak, utterly miserable – a lot of the things Rick would have said were the antithesis of the punk.

“The house is, like, just up there, Vyv,” Neil told him quietly.

Somehow, even Neil was noticeably subdued and he was _Neil_!

“I was just so… so a-angry,” Vyvyan went on, emotion leaking from him like a used sponge, “Because… because he does- he doesn’t tell my anything! I’m useless to him!” He stopped trying to walk, as Rick had spotted him attempting to do for the last few minutes, leaving Kevin and Neil to drag his whole frame once more. There was another snivel, louder than before. “I-I can feel him slipping away, Mike, every bloody day! And there’s nothing I can do and I… _I hate it_!”

He went quiet again.

“We know, Vyv, we know…”

It was either Mike or Neil who said it. That simple sentiment confirmed it: Rick was indeed rather crap at concealing his feelings from the people he lived with. Even feelings as deep and complex as his often were these days. In all, it was an unsurprising yet worrisome revelation.

_Who’s the fascist now, eh? You better be ready to grovel, matey, you don’t deserve any of this lot!_

They followed the front path up to the house – their grotty haven. In they went in an eager sort of haze, still remarkably quiet. Vyvyan’s sickly complexion and stained clothes flared up beneath the light of the hallway bulb. He looked atrocious, truly. Maybe he _was_ at death’s door.

“And we’re back,” Mike announced with tired enthusiasm. He rubbed his forehead and leant briefly against the nearest wall. “I don’t know about you fellas but I could sleep until next Christmas and still wake up ready for a nap, know what I mean?”

Kevin nodded mid-yawn. Dark circles had gathered below his eyes – and Neil’s – and most probably Mike’s too. Vyvyan’s eyes were a tad beyond the panda look, _zombie_ may have been a more appropriate word choice.

“You can stay the night again, man, it’s late,” Neil assured Kevin.

“Yeah,” Mike agreed, “Don’t want you train hunting at this hour, it’s hardly a popular hobby…”

Everyone was too tired to frown in confusion – although the spirit did chuckle to themselves very quietly.

From a state of hollow self-loathing, Rick watched as Vyvyan was carted off to bed. He followed at a distance on the stairs; a stranger to the scenario as much as any random bastard would have been. It was as if he didn’t belong anymore. He had _made himself_ not belong.

 _God, you_ are _pathetic!_

So, this was it, was it? The edge of the cliff. Another ruddy cliff.

_It’s no wonder nobody’s ever liked you! It’s no wonder Vyvyan spent three years hating you! Congratulations, Richard, you’ve just set him back on track!_

As Neil was helping Vyvyan into his room, the punk spoke up. He was staring across the landing at Rick’s closed bedroom door, nervous as this made Neil, with a faraway expression on his face. Wistful. Teary.

“I had something important to give him, you know…” he mumbled, “Was supposed to be special…”

That was what it took. A moment of softness, a moment of vulnerability, a momentary thought of the little red parcel downstairs – and Rick cracked. Stumbling towards the large window with his vision blurred and legs shaking, it was all he could do not to fall over, curl up and die. He bit his fist and bit it _hard_ , scrunching his eyes shut against yet another onslaught of despair. Pathetic was the right word to describe him – he really was the terrible person everyone told him he was, wasn’t he? Rick had hurt the person closest to him and that was a consequence far worse than… than… whatever being _gay_ when his _dead parents_ might have wanted him to be straight would ever have meant. Because, as he had known all along, it would have meant nothing. _Nothing_. Why couldn’t he hold on to that fact?

“ _No, no, no, no, no, no, no_!” Rick heard himself moaning, “NO!” The spirit was so obviously observing him, Rick could _feel_ them. “This is all your fault!” he growled at them. This was his last line of defence; his last port of denial. Rick opened his eyes, staring at them like a madman. “It is! If you hadn’t turned me into this bloody _pointless_ shadow, I could have been with him! I could have spent Christmas day with Vyvyan!”

By now, his speech was basically unintelligible. The sobs and the gasps and the gagging disguised it to the human ear. Disguised it to Rick, himself. Nevertheless, the poltergoost understood with perfect clarity and shook their head sadly.

“No, Ricky-”

“I _could_!” he protested, broken record that he was.

“That’s not the problem, babes, the problem is: _would_ you have? Without seeing any of this?” they queried, not at all expecting a response.

Rick stopped choking and his shoulders slumped forwards.

“No,” he admitted to the floorboards quietly, “No, I wouldn’t have.”

_And I’m so blummin’ sorry!_

“Rick?”

Christ almighty! Kevin! What did this _cretin_ want now!? There he was – all alone on the landing, looking like he might very well pass out there – stood waiting outside Rick’s room as if the poet was going to invite him in for a spot of tea. He hadn’t even spoken that loudly.

“Piss off!” Rick snapped at him.

“Rick, I don’t know if you can hear me, like – not as in that I think you might have gone deaf in the last few hours, although I suppose it’s possible if you were really unlucky. I meant more like you can’t hear me because you might be asleep. You wouldn’t be able to hear me then, would you?” Kevin started rambling, amusing himself as he did.

Rick exhaled. Where was this coming from? His cousin had done unusually well at controlling his number one habit for most of the day, why did it have to show up now? Right at the end? Why for Rick?

“Well, _maybe_ ,” Kevin admitted, already lost in his own thoughts of insignificance, “If I spoke loudly enough then it would disturb your dream but I bet you wouldn’t think I’d actually said anything at all so it would be a complete waste of time, wouldn’t it?”

“Much like this stupid conversation,” Rick quipped bitterly, wiping at his eyes.

Kevin scrunched his face up. He must have confused himself already. _Joy_.

“The real me, that is, the me that’s standing here and talking to you right now. Not the dream me, who you’d think was talking to you. Then again, maybe a giraffe or something would do the talking – you know what dreams are like! He’d have my voice, I suppose, but you might not join the dots. It’s hard to with dreams-”

“I don’t think anyone’s going to learn anything from his _looney_ ravings, spirit,” Rick complained, in the unhappy position of feeling suddenly both bored and annoyed. Could he have some of that crippling emotional agony back, please?

Evermore frustratingly, the poltergoost seemed quite engrossed in what Kevin was saying. Honestly, it was as if Rick was the only sane person around sometimes! What was with people and paying _Kevin Turvey_ attention these last two days? That wasn’t how things were supposed to be. It was just _typical_ that Rick would be forced to listen to him too, that he would lose about seven trillion braincells in one fell swoop, that he would-

“Anyway, even if any of that would work, I couldn’t do it.” Kevin’s demeanour had sobered up into something more serious. “Vyvyan’s trying to sleep… he’s not had the best day. In fact, it’s a bit worse than ‘not the best’. I know it’s not really my place or anything – we’ve never really been that close, have we? For one thing, you live down here and I live up in Redditch. But, putting that aside, I think you should talk to him. I can’t tell you what to talk to him _about_ ; that’s up to you. There are loads of topics, though: the weather, what your favourite breakfast cereal is. Or toast. Or a fry up- oh, you’re vegetarian, aren’t you? Maybe not a fry up then. Not unless you fried a salad or something… but that’s more of a lunch meal, isn’t it? But that’s not important. Having people around to talk to is important, you know – it can help… unscramble things.”

Rick couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Half of him wanted to punch the ruddy git and the other half wanted to jump out of the window.

“You bastard…” was all managed to get out.

“If you keep all your thoughts in your head then eventually it gets too full and then… well, I don’t know. I’m not a psychiatrist, am I?” Kevin laughed, but it was an uneasy laugh, “I just know that sometimes when I’m alone and there’s no one to talk to, like… it can get a bit boring. And then I have to talk to myself. Not literally. That would look stupid… not that anyone would see. But if they could it would look stupid. I talk to myself in my head…” He frowned once more, looking down. “The conversations don’t always make sense… sometimes the entire day can just fly by like it never happened… so that’s why I think you should talk to Vyvyan, instead of yourself.”

Wait… was Kevin addressing what Rick thought he was addressing? Those funny turns the poet had seen him lapse into now and then… unnerving though they were for Rick. He peered at his cousin with newfound interest, stepping closer. Kevin had stopped talking – not ordinary for one of his rambles – and was actually shaking a little. His eyes were glassy. This was… strangely getting to Rick. Maybe, circumstances with Vyvyan providing a fine example, he should take this seriously, whatever it was. That sounded more like the People’s Poet, even if it was for his daft cousin.

Kevin cracked a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I thought I should probably let you know why I came here before I leave tomorrow morning,” he went on, former wobble dismissed, “I _have_ been investigating what Christmas means to people but that was more of a… cover story. My mum wanted a quiet Christmas this year, you see… with _Mick_ … he’s our lodger, he used to be in the army. That’s not important though, right-” He brushed away that titbit with telling frustration.

Mick, eh? Rick wasn’t sure if he had ever met him. From the way Kevin’s mouth turned down at the end of his name, however, Rick realised that this probably wasn’t such a bad thing. Clearly, he wasn’t exactly a saint in Kevin’s eyes.

“I was supposed to be going ‘round to my friend Keith Marshall’s, except he’s not my friend anymore because he’s a bastard! You know when you have a friend… and then they turn into a bastard? That’s Keith.” Weirdly, Kevin smiled in genuine. “I expect he’ll go back to normal soon, it’s just bad timing. Because it’s Christmas. That’s when I remembered that your parents died this year – it’s not that I forgot! I just think about other things too.”

 _Woah_ … Rick had certainly _not_ been ready for that curveball of a topic changer! He backed away instinctually and hugged his sides. Just when the tables were turning Kevin had to pull that! Rick sniffed, noticing his cousin seemed determined to apologise to the door for any misconceptions.

“Like, I’m not thinking about your parents every second of the day because that would be strange, wouldn’t it? Anyway, so I thought, ‘Oh, Rick might be feeling lonely this Christmas. I’ll go and see him.’ Only I was wrong, wasn’t I?” he asked with a cheeky smirk, pausing momentarily for the non-answer, “Because you’ve got all your mates around you. And Vyvyan.”

“And Vyvyan…” Rick repeated dumbly. His mind jumbled through why on earth Kevin had chosen to list him separately. In fact, why on earth he had kept referring to Vyvyan specifically at all.

“ _Shit_!”

Did Kevin know? Did he _know_?

“He’s very loud and angry, isn’t he? I think you’re a good match-”

Oh Cliff, he knew. How could he not? He knew and… _he didn’t mind_. He didn’t mind! Was Rick having some sort of breakdown or had he heard that correctly!?

“-but, basically, right – if I hadn’t come down here for Christmas then I would have been quite lonely. And _bored_. Y’know, in between the investigating. And I told you what happens when I get bored and my mind starts talking to me – it’s not exactly Christmassey, is it?” he sighed. “So thank you for letting me stay, even if I’ve not seen you much. I hope you’re feeling better soon… maybe you could come to Redditch sometime when you are? You’d like Keith… well, you probably wouldn’t actually but you might, I don’t know. You could bring your mates, too. Although, if you only have enough money for two tickets – that’s, like, one for you and one for someone else – then could you bring Neil? We had some great discussions…”

Once again, as soon as Rick thought he had a handle on the conversation, Kevin somehow changed the subject!

He actually wanted Rick to visit him in Redditch after the way he had behaved last night? After the way he behaved every time Kevin saw him? Had Rick _ever_ been pleasant to him? Splendid, an ounce more guilt was _all_ he needed!

“Anyway… bye, cuz. Merry Christmas.”

_How was he so casual!?_

As Kevin headed for the staircase, panic seized Rick’s chest and his eyes widened.

“Kevin? No, come back!” he called out, “What did any of that mean!? Kevin? _Cuz_? Oh, ruddy hell!” Rick glared at the poltergoost. “I need you to undo your fascist-y bollocks now – didn’t you _hear_ what he just told me? It’s brilliant! Well, some of it was brilliant.”

But the spirit wasn’t paying him a jot of attention. Rick stamped his foot impatiently.

“Hell-ooo? Are you still there? I’ve realised I’m a total bastard so you can cut out the silent treatment, matey, I’ve learnt the magic lesson. Let me go and speak to him!” he demanded, sighing moodily once the truth that his request wasn’t going to be granted dawned on him. “Fascist…”

Oh god, his head was _spinning_. That had been _a lot_. What was Rick even hoping to say to Kevin? It wasn’t as if he didn’t still find him annoying – he wasn’t about to fall head over heels in love with him like Neil seemingly had! It was just… Rick hadn’t realised that he cared. He wasn’t completely sure why but apparently he did and that, that was _huge_. Kevin wasn’t very happy underneath everything either, was he? It wasn’t just Rick – or Vyvyan, for that matter – in the poet’s sphere of acquaintance who had suffered or were suffering still. It seemed rather obvious now that he thought about it. Vyvyan had been right all that time ago: Rick _was_ the classic example of an only child.

He wasn’t supposed to be but- oh, thinking about her wouldn’t do at this time!

“Christmas day draws to a finish!” the poltergoost announced in a bellowing echo.

The hairs on Rick’s neck prickled at the sensation; there was something _changing_ and the poet wouldn’t have minded betting that it was thanks to this giant Mike. They were facing the staircase so all that Rick could truly see of them was their enormous red robe. He swallowed slowly, unexpectedly feeling the tides of fear oozing into him.

“So it is!” he tried to joke, “Time for bed then, I suppose-”

“Look at me, Rick.”

It was the sternest Rick had heard the poltergoost.

“Well… it would help maybe… and this is just a suggestion… if you turned around?” he suggested meekly.

“My entity, my anchor to this plane…” the poltergoost started just as dramatically as their previous proclamation.

“Y-yes?” Rick pressed.

“My timer has run out of juice, babes. It’s ticked its last tock.”

Huh? Did these spirits specialise in nonsensical phrases? Rick hadn’t been aware that they owned a _timer_. What would they want with something like that? With a pronounced stagger, the Poltergoost of Christmas Present finally turned around to face Rick. Immediately, Rick really wished they hadn’t.

“WHAT THE BLUMMIN’ FLIP’S HAPPENED TO YOU!?”

He very nearly fainted on the spot. It wasn’t that the spirit suddenly looked horrifying – not unless old age pensioners were due to become the next horror movie villains – they simply hadn’t looked like that five minutes ago, Rick was sure of it! He _knew_ he should have paid more attention to their weather-beaten persona on the way home! How had their hair gone from coal black to pearly white without him noticing!? This was insane! There were more lines on their face than spots on Rick’s bottom – and that was a bloody lot! They were even hunched over now!

“Calm down, Ricky,” they told him in a noticeably aged voice.

Was this… Mike’s future!?

“No, I bloody well will not! This didn’t happen to the last one!” Rick replied defiantly as he backed away, “What’s wrong with you? This better not be infectious, matey – I _am_ the voice of youth, for Cliff’s sake!”

The spirit laughed, which quickly turned into a coughing fit. They were getting older with every breath, it appeared. God, Rick hoped this wasn’t contagious!

“My physical form only lasts the day, I’ll be returning to the shadows soon,” they explained, as if this was a useful explanation. “Before that, though, I’ve got a drop off to make.”

They coughed more forcefully and opened their robe. Rick yelped in fear of getting flashed by an old non-human entity that looked strikingly similar to his housemate but, thankfully, there was nothing traumatising to be seen.

Nothing barring two grown men in purple suits suddenly tumbling from the depths of the spirit’s robe and on to the landing floor.

“Who the ruddy heck are they!?” Rick panicked.

The duo seemed dazed at their descent by the way they were groaning and swearing yet their recovery time was incredible, for already the both of them were getting to their feet. The changing in the atmosphere Rick had felt before, it must have been these two. Definitely. They emitted a pervasive feeling into the air: something worrying and concerning and not at all what Rick felt like dealing with at the moment.

“Take it easy, Ricky, these two are what we in the business call-”

“Good evening!” one of them cut across brashly, grinning theatrically and somewhat aggressively at Rick, “We are the Dangerous Brothers!”

“HAHA! DANGEROUS BROTHERS!” the other one immediately followed up with, like an extraordinarily noisy echo.

“The Dangerous Brothers,” the poltergoost confirmed.

“Yes. I think my eardrums can attest to that,” Rick winced, “What I don’t understand is why they’re here.”

The poet was undeniably starting to feel nervous now. It wasn’t just their presence, it was the way they were surveying their surroundings like a couple of wild animals, finding amusement in things that Rick couldn’t decipher. Indeed, whilst they _looked_ human enough, one had to wonder…

“Aren’t they familiar at all?” the spirit croaked out.

On cue, the Dangerous Brothers glanced over at Rick and smiled – smarmily or ravenously, he couldn’t decide. Either way, there was something deeply twisted going on with them.

“Wicky, Wicky!” the first cooed, earning a loud round of laughter from the second.

Rick had to bite his tongue and settle for blushing. They apparently already had ammunition, a tremendously bad sign. Although, that said, the more Rick peered at them, the more he had to agree with the poltergoost about their familiarity. They were about the same height as him, both had blue eyes and-

“Oh my- JESUS CHRIST!” Rick squealed.

“Not Jesus, Wickolas! Dangerous Brothers!” the first chastised him mockingly.

“DANGEROUS BROTHERS!” the second reiterated.

“Jesus is a different bloke!”

“Different bloke!”

Trying to ignore them for a moment and get some seriously needed answers, Rick averted his shaken gaze to the poltergoost.

“W-why does that one look like me!?” he asked, nodding towards the first one.

The Dangerous Brother in question slapped a hand to his chest, affronted.

“Not like you, Wickolas – _sexier_ than you!” he corrected him.

“Sexier than you!” the second agreed.

That was subjective at best – what little hair he had was greased and styled in the most absurd of fashions. It was actually quite disturbing for Rick to see himself so hideous! The other did have hair, blonde and fluffed out everywhere; a style caused by sleeping or standing too close to an explosion. There would be no prize for guessing which was the more likely scenario.

Yet – behind all the whacky hair and slimy facial expressions – Rick could see Vyvyan.

“A-and that one-“

“Ignore him, Wicky, he’s irrelevant,” the one that looked like him told him as though he was the authority on this, even reaching over to pat Rick’s trembling shoulder as if they were old pals.

“Irrele- _hey_!”

A fight broke out between the two mysterious beings, ending rather prematurely when the one that looked like Rick kneed the one that looked like Vyvyan in the crotch. He gasped, doubling over, and Rick’s lookalike rubbed his hands together proudly.

“Now, _shut_ up!” he instructed.

Apparently unaware that anything was wrong, the poltergoost cleared their throat. Then again, perhaps they were just used to these antics?

“The Dangerous Brothers also go by another name-”

“Yes, yes, but Dangerous Brothers is a lot… _dangerouser_ … and sexier!” the Rick-like one cut them off again. He smiled smugly at the poet. “Unusually dangerous, I trust you’ll agree!”

Well, Rick wasn’t going to _disagree_. He did value the use of his knob! Yes, it was best simply to back away slowly from this demonic version of himself. Gently did it…

“What are their other names?” Rick asked, mostly as a distraction.

“Well-”

“ _Ahem_! Good evening, everybody! I am Ignorance!” the one that looked like him introduced himself with an extravagant bow.

The other immediately bobbed back up. The pain was forgotten.

“He is ignorant!”

Ignorance punched him down again.

“And he is Want!”

“I am wanting!” Want concurred from the floor.

What? That didn’t make much sense.

“Wanting what?” Rick questioned, because he was silly like that sometimes.

The Dangerous Brothers chuckled pervily, exchanging a filthy look. Eugh! _Whatever_ that meant, Rick didn’t truly know, though he realised he had dug deep enough into that bucket of terror. His face wouldn’t relax from its position of vague disgust. The poltergoost shrugged their sagging shoulders.

“Both are a bit, well…” they trailed off as if the right descriptor _somehow_ eluded them.

“ _DANGEROUS_!?” the two of them shouted.

“Indeed,” the spirit agreed, “Beware them both, babes, but especially Ignorance.”

Unlike most individuals who had just been told they were a risk to others, Ignorance smiled evermore smugly at his floor bound counterpart.

“Ha ha! You hear that? The Poltergoost of Christmas Present thinks I’m more dangerous than you!” he boasted.

Want stood back up abruptly and cut off the other’s sneering.

“Are not!”

“Are too!”

“You _are_ not!”

“Yes, I _am_!”

In a weird way, they were like children. Volatile, quite possibly murderous children. Maybe they were more of a reflection of Rick and Vyvyan than the poet had given them credit for. Alright, they weren’t a flattering reflection and – Rick would like to have hoped – they were a proportionately more negative reflection than the real thing but their behaviour wasn’t completely alien. They reminded Rick of his relationship with Vyvyan prior to their poofy confessions in the hospital… only the roles appeared to have reversed.

Or had they? Rick didn’t like the implications.

“What are you suggesting!?” he challenged the poltergoost, “That I’m ignorant to Vyvyan’s… wanting!?”

The Dangerous Brothers stopped squabbling momentarily.

“No, _I’m_ ignorant!” Ignorance whined crossly.

Rick and the dying spirit ignored him.

“I’m not _suggesting_ anything. You saw what happened today and I’m sure you’re perfectly capable of coming to your own conclusions,” they pointed out, making Rick squirm at the blind truth of it all. “Just remember – _ignorance creates want_.”

Astonishingly, Ignorance – who was stupendously unaware of the metaphor he was demonstrating by his very actions – had the gall to sneer some more at Want after this revelation.

“Yeah, that’s right! Ignorance creates- WHAT!?”

“ _Ooer_!” Want chuckled.

Another dirty smile: another fisticuffs initiated. Eugh, Rick _hated_ them! Were his and Vyvyan’s minds really so deeply wedged in the gutter? Well, yes, _obviously_ … but that wasn’t the point!

“To stop being ignorant a person has got to actively want to, Ricky,” the poltergoost warned the poet, “Y’know, in many cases – not all, I’ll grant you – but in many, ignorance is a choice.”

They weren’t quite so solid now; Rick could see the staircase through their robe. Of course, he assumed the reason for the spirit’s sudden growth in philosophical bollocks was more to do with their annoying him than their impending end. However, for once, they may have outmanoeuvred Rick’s stubborn streak. All this talk of choices… Rick knew he had a choice _really_ , that was what had compelled him to come out to Vyvyan in the first place. He hadn’t been so fearful of judgement then. Every second of life had felt like an undeserved bonus, like they had escaped death in a way that no one else could.

In a way that Rick’s parents couldn’t. _Hadn’t_.

What had Fred said to him last night? His parents were dead and he was alive. _That_ was the key, he realised, though screamingly obvious it was. Although, Rick fancied adding an extra notion to the phrase.

His parents were dead, he was alive and _so was Vyvyan_.

The People’s Poet sighed the sigh of his entire generation.

“I understand the message, alright?”

He didn’t have the gusto to try and insult the poltergoost anymore. The Dangerous Brothers were still fighting before him and Rick just wanted them gone. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure if he had the arrogance in him to expect Vyvyan to be understanding of his state of mind at all after such an appalling day. He suspected he would muster it up soon enough. On the other hand, this wasn’t _all_ about Rick and maybe – just maybe – it never had been.

Apparently reading Rick from his face again, the spirit cracked a weakened grin.

“Fast learner, eh? Well, my candle’s almost out,” they admitted with a groan.

Rick nodded, hoping this would be the end at long last. Were they going to drop down dead and wither away in the middle of the house or would this fading malarkey continue until nothing was left? Understandably, Rick was praying for the latter. More concerningly, anyhow, was the way the Dangerous Brothers were reacting to the poltergoost’s imminent exit: they had stopped fighting and were staring at them, palpable excitement badly contained. Rick cringed at the fake look of pity Ignorance had quickly pulled.

“Leaving us so soon, spirit?” he asked in a strange croon of a tone, one that dripped with fake disappointment.

“Ahaha!” Want gleefully laughed. He froze, realising his mistake. “I mean… oh no?”

Ignorance rolled his eyes and face palmed. Naturally, the poltergoost took this all in exceedingly good humour and actually _smiled_ at them! In doing so, the edges of their mouth crinkled… crinkled a bit more, anyway. Rick couldn’t be quite so positive.

“You’re taking them with you, right?” he queried.

A great fear had grasped his heart and was squeezing nastily tightly.

“No can do, Ricky,” the poltergoost apologised in sincerity, “Ignorance and Want do as they please.”

The Dangerous Brothers twisted around to eye up the twitching poet. Creepy, identical smiles bore into him and he shook his head profusely.

“Wh-what? You can’t just leave me with them!” Rick protested, “ _Please_!”

As had been typical of the spirit for the entire time Rick had known them, they shrugged – this time, out of existence. A whisper of their voice carried through their last words, a final warning:

“ _Beware the Dangerous Brothers_ …”

Well, that was useful of them, wasn’t it? Rick thought he might wet himself on the spot. On the other hand, unperturbed by their host’s lack of welcome, the Dangerous Brothers advanced on him like wild hyenas.

“It’s your lucky day, Wick!” Ignorance told him, slinging a purple arm around his shoulders.

“Your lucky day!” Want reemphasised.

“What kind of dangerousness would you like to see first?”

This was the time for Rick to try and fight back. Cliff knew he couldn’t just hover in between the insane pair without saying anything. Still twitching, he detached himself from Ignorance’s uncomfortable embrace.

“N-none! _Go away_!” he scoffed at them.

Well, it would have been a scoff, if only he hadn’t stuttered. Scoffs of superiority tended to come undone when their owners stuttered, it gave the game away. Want’s forehead creased in confusion at why on earth Rick was being so rude.

“I think he wants us to go away,” he said.

“Yes – I _can_ hear, thank you very much, _Sir Adrian_!” Ignorance scoffed – properly.

“Sir Adrian?” Rick muttered.

“Maybe he wants to see our latest trick!”

“Yeah! Our latest trick!” Want seemed full of excitement. “What is our latest trick?”

Growling slightly, Ignorance whacked him over the head. Any chance of Rick slinking away was well and truly scuppered by now and it was hammered home when indeed _both_ of the Dangerous Brothers grabbed his arms, holding him in place.

“Richard Pratt!” Ignorance addressed him.

“Y-yes?” he gulped, inwardly cursing the poltergoost for ditching him to these two.

“Tonight – for you – the Dangerous Brothers are proud to present… _dissection_!”

“DISSECTION!”

“And look – we even have our own doctor in training!”

“A doctor in training!”

Wait; hold the horses; take it easy – were they seeking to involve Vyvyan in whatever depravity they had lined up!? This really was out of order! Again, Rick managed to shrug out of their clingy hold. It wasn’t that he was particularly braver than he had been twenty seconds ago, just considerably more pissed off.

“You leave Vyvyan out of this!” Rick snarled at them, “You… fascists!”

The Dangerous Brothers were suspiciously quiet for a moment and the stupid part of Rick – which was quite large, to be fair – began to think he had shown them who was the boss around here… when Mike was absent. But, as anyone else could have predicted, as soon as that moment ended, they roared with laughter.

“ _Ooh-eh-ooh-eh-ooh_!”

The embarrassment reminded Rick of Toffworths and the pure _bastards_ he had encountered there. He wasn’t about to let these two freaky monsters from the closet channel the Kirrins – once in a lifetime was more than enough experience where secondary school bullies were concerned.

“I mean it!” Rick insisted.

“And so do we! Sir Adrian, the saw please!”

Want or _Sir Adrian_ or whatever the bloody hell he wanted to be called winked, leering at Rick, before immediately stuffing a hand into his trouser pocket. It may not sound it but this was a sight and a half to behold: the amount of rummaging about he did was comical, as were the several stages of puzzlement to delight that performed upon his features. Just when Rick thought this couldn’t get anymore nightmarish, the bugger went and did it.

He pulled a fully sized electric chainsaw out of his trousers! That was physically impossible!

“No! No, don’t!” Rick fast found himself begging.

After all, if the Dangerous Brothers could pull off stunts like that then what chance did anyone stand against them? Like Vyvyan? Heaven forbid, a drunk Vyvyan? This was getting _serious_ and Rick didn’t know _what_ to do! Panicking, he darted in front of the door to the punk’s bedroom, holding his arms either side of him in a futile attempt at creating a protective barrier. Cackling at him, Ignorance and Want drew closer. Rick tried to shake his head but found Ignorance – who had snatched the weapon – sticking the chainsaw through his middle as their cackling grew ever louder.

Now… being impaled with a chainsaw was meant to hurt and it certainly would have done if Rick hadn’t been a shadow. Clearly, Ignorance was mocking him again. If the chainsaw passed straight through his own body then how was Rick supposed to protect Vyvyan from it? The simple answer was that he couldn’t.

Unable to move now – not because of the Dangerous Brothers and their chainsaw, simply out of _fear_ – a pitiful sort of whimpering issued forth from Rick. He couldn’t even defend his boyfriend verbally! How pathetic was this!? Whilst Rick suffered, Ignorance removed the chainsaw and mimicked Rick’s distress. He took a deep breath.

“And now-”

“ _OI_!”

There was someone new in the vicinity, someone Rick didn’t recognise. Their voice was harsh, furious, emotive. It instantly had the Dangerous Brothers rooted to the spot and their eyes wide in horror. So this was someone worse than them? What the ruddy heck was going on!?

“Are you two bastards going to _piss off_ or do I need to give you another demonstration on what _dangerous_ actually means!?” the mysterious voice hollered.

Rick’s tremors spread to his tormentors as they slowly turned to face whoever had arrived. Although Rick didn’t dare move with them to get a peek, he did spot Ignorance wiping his shiny head in what could only be described as a nervous manner.

“N-no, no, that won’t be necessary…” the Rick lookalike assured the newcomer, weaselly temperament increasing by the second, “Your most dangerous and sexy poltergoostne-”

“Then piss off!”

The Dangerous Brothers nodded several times, eyes on the floor. Rick noticed dark smoke beginning to gather at their feet and snake up their legs. Want was now trembling so hard that he was fortunate not to fall over himself. He laughed timidly.

“We will now… piss off…”

The horrid duo performed a series of exaggerated curtseys as they backed away, which Rick found incredible considering how excited they had been to _dissect_ his boyfriend not five minutes ago. Gradually, the dark smoke around their feet spread upwards and they melted into the shadows.

Rick wanted to breathe a sigh of relief… but he wasn’t alone on the landing…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there :)) I am happy that this chapter is done because it was really pissing me off and I have such plans for the next one mwahaha! As always, a few points:
> 
> *I apologise for any Rick OOCness. Like I said in the last chapter, it's an odd process giving him self-awareness.  
> *If you're wondering why you don't remember the Ghost of Christmas Present from A Christmas Carol having magic eyes, do not fret! They didn't, that was my weird contribution.  
> *I wonder what Vyvyan bought Rick for Christmas...  
> *Richie Rich is possibly harder to write for than Kevin Turvey and I don't know whyyyy.  
> *Kevin and Neil's friendship keeps growing in my mind and I think that's neat.  
> *A strip club in Soho! HMMMM, IS THAT FAMILIAR???  
> *The two drunks in the loo at the concert were supposed to be the Dreamy Time Escorts from TCSP episode Mr. Jolly Lives Next Door - because you can never have too much Rik and Ade, right?  
> *I'm so sorry for making Vyvyan beat up Colin! Still, at least Spider was being nice to him and now I've got yet another offshoot to write about this fic. Excited!  
> *Yes, I had Colin paraphrase a certain imaginary friend...  
> *Kevin! Basically, I rewatched The Man Behind The Green Door and noticed there are a few moments where he seems a little... off. I'm not sure how else to put it. Is he okay? No one knows, least of all me. I believe I read somewhere that Rik said he was insane but, whatever he is, Kevin is a little different. I decided that this could be a point of angst too because it appears I cannot help myself.  
> *Oh, as a sidenote for Kevin - because he's taking over now apparently - I figured it wasn't such a leap to put his mum and Mick together when in canon Mick wears her night clothes. Of course, there's another interpretation for that (one I'm sure Rick would be quite familiar with) but I thought if I put them together then you could all feel sorry for Kevin. Hehe.  
> *Ignorance and Want are too often forgotten in remakes of A Christmas Carol, I feel. The Dangerous Brothers seemed to fit best out of the options. Really, I'm not too sure whether their presence was especially necessary for the story but I did tag this fic self indulgent and they are unusually dangerous!  
> *Who is Rick's saviour? You may have already guessed but all I'll say is that they're one of my favourite characters for this fic.
> 
> Thanks for reading part 3! :)


	4. Stave 4: The Last of the Three Poltergoosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!  
> Been a while, hasn't it? I figured no one would want Christmas fic in the summer but it's November now and I'm trying to get this crazy wreck done in time for the big day. I'm pleased to announce that this chapter is not as long as the previous one... although it is only about 1000 words shorter. What am I doing? XD  
> I've known how I wanted this one to go for a long time and I hope I've managed to pull it off (ooer) okay because I can't tell anymore, I've reread it too much. Writing certain parts of this made me feel sad, although I'm unsure if that will translate when you read it. Hopefully? Or not? ABC is already angsty enough! Just be warned that this is the chapter relating to the "Temporary Character Death" tag.  
> Hope you enjoy!

A count of three; a breath in and a breath out.

Rick let his body move again and stepped out from under the doorway to Vyvyan’s bedroom. Alright, alright… the world hadn’t exploded. Not yet. The new person couldn’t be _that_ destructive then, could they? Or _could_ they? Almost robotically, Rick gave into the inevitability of the situation and turned to face them, eyes wide in fight-or-flight mode. His heart thundered in his chest.

“Don’t put yourself out and thank me, will you?” the newcomer quipped sarcastically.

Without the presence of the Dangerous Brothers interfering with Rick’s focus, he found that their voice was actually _eerily_ , _worryingly_ familiar. Oh _no_.

This was _not good_.

For a moment, all he could see of the figure before him was the large black robe they were wearing – so large, in fact, that it obscured their feet and anything else that might have confirmed or denied their identity – as well as a six foot tall scythe. Rick took a tentative step backwards, subconsciously choosing ‘flight’, and was _grossly_ unprepared when the cloaked being’s head immediately snapped up at his movement to reveal a glaring face that the poet knew all too well.

“V-Vyvyan…” he just about choked out.

And it was. Or, rather, it _nearly_ was. Rick’s Vyvyan was pale but not _this_ pale; his eyes – although undeniably threatening and sharp – were _blue_ , not _stark red_. For Cliff’s sake, where were his studs and piercings!?

The being rolled their eyes.

“I’m _not_ Vyvyan – _I_ wouldn’t kiss your bottom even if you swore to kill yourself in an incredibly painful way afterwards!” they sneered. In Vyvyan’s voice.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, their words cut Rick like ice. Maybe it was the shock; _maybe_ that was the _point_. Their venom reminded him of how things _used to be_ , before the bus crash and the late-night hospital confessions and the soft words exchanged behind grotty bedroom doors. When Vyvyan still _hated_ him and made no secret of it. Indeed, when Rick still hated Vyvyan. Though… that wasn’t _quite_ right, was it?

The being took a step closer to Rick and pulled down the hood that was concealing most of their head. Of course: there was the trademark tri-hawk, so similar to the one Rick mussed up regularly against their grime streaked pillows and splintered headboards. Yet, it _wasn’t_ the same. Couldn’t be. It was _black_ for a start; that seemed to be a theme with this entity…

“Are you just going to gawp at me like some sissy virgin, prick?” they asked, sounding partly genuinely curious but mostly mocking.

Rick blushed and finally felt his sense of indignation return.

“L-look! Who-whoever you are-”

“Oh, come _on_!” they interrupted him, “You must have worked it out by now! I’m the _third_ bloody one you’ve met since Fred visited you!”

Realisation dawned on Rick’s twitching face.

“Another ruddy poltergoost!” he cried out in disbelief, “Is this _ever_ going to end!? I’ve learnt my _ruddy_ lesson, right! I don’t need… _you_ … creeping around me now and making things worse! I’m going to talk to my cousin!”

Rick was quite proud of the authority in his voice by the time he finished his piece. A smug smirk had blossomed across his features, as if Kevin was the winning excuse that would make this disturbing grim-reaper-Vyvyan-poltergoost piss off and never return. What _had_ Fred been thinking, sending someone who looked so much like the punk to bother Rick!? Neil and Mike lookalikes were bad enough!

Unfortunately, the poltergoost laughed through his moral bluster – much in the same way Vyvyan used to… and still did, if he was honest.

“Would this be the same cousin you’ve only come to care for in the last half an hour?” they inquired, giving him a look of contempt.

“Wh- that’s none of your business!” Rick snapped, “And besides – _anyway_ – it wasn’t until half an hour ago that I knew-”

“That he was pro-poof – yes, I know,” the spirit finished for him, sounding almost irritated with boredom. “Still, one little cousin-to-cousin chitchat doesn’t really make up for 21 years of _unnecessarily bastardly_ – not to mention _hypocritical_ – hatred from you, does it? What are you going to say to him, prick? ‘Oh, Kevin, I’ve decided you’we worthy of my attention now! Would you like to help me overthwow Thatcher? I’ve never weally thought about how to do it because I’m such a girly tosser so if things go tits up, are you alwight to take the blame?’”

The sadistic grin; the rudely accurate imitation of Rick’s lisp; the unconcealed anger whenever they spoke, like a spitting fire with annoyingly good aim. This poltergoost wasn’t like the other two – this one openly _despised_ Rick. How blummin’ unfair was that!? They had only just met! How could they judge his treatment of Kevin when they hadn’t even _seen_ the anoraked fool- no, not fool. Rick was better than that, wasn’t he? He could be nice to Kevin.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” the poltergoost prompted, disgustingly smug at Rick’s blatant moral crisis.

Rick scoffed too loudly.

“Ha! As if – you’re only humiliating yourself with how completely and utterly wrong you really are! I’d feel sorry for you if you weren’t so obviously a _Nazi fascist_ ,” he deflected with his typical level of nous, snorting insufferably as he continued, “I’d _never_ word things in such _sexist_ terms, matey. Really, I think it would be for the best if you just left and told Fred his mission’s already been accomplished…”

As was easily guessable, despite his bravado, Rick was desperate for a way out of hanging around this poltergoost. Not only did they look like the boyfriend he had let down so monumentally, they very possibly wanted him dead and Rick wasn’t keen on testing the sharpness of that scythe. It wasn’t that he wasn’t _scared_ of them as such. No, preposterous! He was just… secretly bloody _terrified_.

With that in mind, Rick started purposefully towards the staircase with his brow furrowed and lip curled in anger. Anger worked best; it was his default. Truthfully, anger was hardly the ideal state to apologise to Kevin in but then was there actually _any_ ideal state to apologise to Kevin in? Apologies were skin-crawlingly awful, after all. The issue was rendered a moot point when Rick was halted rather abruptly by the poltergoost grasping his right arm.

“Not so fast, bum-bag,” they told him in a somehow gravellier tone than before.

Rick was utterly frozen: the hairs on his chest – and, yes, they _did_ exist, thank you – stood erect and immobile. His mind was disturbingly empty, as if he would never think a nice thought again. Rick’s gaze was _stuck_ , horrified, on the unexpectedly _skeletal_ right hand with which the spirit had stopped him.

“Y-your h-hand-” he stuttered after a minute.

The poltergoost released him from their grip and looked down at it like it was ordinary to have one appendage that was entirely bone. A Vyvyan-like grin broke out on their face and they waved it about in close proximity to a tellingly greener Rick.

“’S great, isn’t it? Fred did it,” they revealed, chuckling as if this was a _fond_ memory.

“ _Fred_!?” Rick spluttered. He couldn’t believe his own imaginary friend was capable of something like _that_! “ _Drop Dead Fred_!?” he reiterated

“Yeah, that’s the bloke,” the poltergoost patronised him slowly, frowning in confusion when Rick still didn’t break out in a more positive reaction. “What? It was only a joke! He thought it added to my general vibe and I happen to agree with him, bottom boil.”

They shrugged nonchalantly and flicked Rick’s forehead. _Hard_.

“ _Ow_!” Rick cried out.

“Wuss!” They laughed at him again before at last showing some sign that they agreed with Rick’s general view on their predicament: “Look, I don’t want this to last especially longer than it has to, alright?” they conceded whilst massaging their temples, as though Rick’s mere presence was giving them a headache. “I don’t usually talk during these jobs – most of you are unbelievably dull and it’s funnier to watch you squirm – but this one is particularly important and I don’t trust your common sense so… sod it, y’know?”

Rick nodded dumbly, although he really _didn’t_ know. At once, the poltergoost was suddenly up in his face, red eyes serious and _still_ angry.

“I’m also not interested in you mouthing off like you’ve been doing to Past and Present; I’m only doing this for Fred and I _don’t_ care if you cry like a soppy girl during or after. Understood?” they warned him.

“Well, I-”

“Good,” they carried on, backing off and twirling their scythe around a little too thoughtlessly for Rick’s liking.

There was noticeable boredom floating around their eyes by now and it made Rick cringe. Why did they have to resemble Vyvyan in even the minutest details? This really wasn’t fair!

“I’m the Poltergoost of Christmas Yet To Come, blah blah blah-” they waffled, turning to the side to address a third person who didn’t exist, “-but you can call me the Poltergoost of Christmas Future because – let’s face it – everyone for the next 141 years will anyway.”

Rick frowned in confusion.

“ _What_?”

The Poltergoost of Christmas Future turned back to him as if nothing had happened.

“I’m here to show you the big, scary world of 1988. Is the bastard known as Rick Pratt ready or does he require further persuasion? Ie – me dragging you there whilst I give your bollocks a good kicking?” they asked, an eyebrow raised in anticipation of a reply, “Oh, and – just to clarify – either way is fine by me.”

Well! Rick wanted to be outlandishly offended and go off on a tirade of rage at this moody imposter. So what if they had scared away the Dangerous Brothers? Rick could have figured something out eventually, _he could have_! Vyvyan wouldn’t _necessarily_ have been chopped into little pieces. He could have bribed them to go after Neil instead!

Oh _god_ – no he couldn’t have. He had nothing to bribe them with. Nothing to bribe _anyone_ with. Swallowing nervously, Rick shook his head at the poltergoost and adjusted his dressing gown – he could at least _try_ and keep composed around them, even if he was doomed to fail.

“No, no – you can take me to 1988, alright? Let’s make this quick, _ghosty-pants_ ,” he sniped at them as aloofly as he could manage.

The two bastards on the first-floor landing glowered at each other with the most natural form of mutual loathing Rick had ever felt. Something he recognised was simmering within him and it wasn’t the remnants of a dodgy, hippie-concocted tea from the night before… or the one before that. Rick was losing track of where he stood with the timeline. This was _serious_. This was… abhorrence?

“My pleasure…” the spirit responded, gravel in their throat once more.

And then the Poltergoost of Christmas Yet To Come kneed Rick sharply in the bollocks and 1984 was no more.

***

“BLOODY HELL, YOU TOTAL _BASTARD_!”

When Rick was next aware of anything, it was the searing pain in his crotch and the stars dancing in his vision. That had _hurt_! What in the name of Cliff Richard was this creature’s knee made of!? It was like being kicked by one of Vyvyan’s doc martens! Rick didn’t remember doubling over in reaction to it but he must have done, the semi rotted floorboards were gazing up at him uninterestedly and it was just about all he could see. The poltergoost was sniggering from somewhere in front of him.

With a wince, Rick straightened himself up. He pointed a furious finger at the spirit and opened his mouth, ready to attack, but… wait. _What_!? Surprised, Rick was momentarily distracted from his agony by the state of the first-floor landing.

It looked… _festive_.

Alright, the Poltergoost of Christmas Present had wandered around the place earlier, adding liberally to Neil’s pitiful efforts, but they hadn’t done it up like _this_. For a start, this wasn’t actually as good. The tinsel hanging around the four door frames was drooping in random places over all but the bathroom’s entrance, the paper chains linking their way up the stairs seemed suspiciously mouldy and the random angel ornament sat on the windowsill looked positively _Victorian_! Yes, the previous spirit’s work had been much fancier – much neater. Although, begrudged as Rick was to admit it as he assumed this was all the work of the hippie, the decorations up now did look _cosier_. An unexpected layer of warmth was added to the borderline derelict building. The kind of warmth he supposed you were meant to capture at Christmastime. Apparently.

“We’re here then? This is 1988?” Rick inquired hesitantly, eyeing everything up with maximum scrutiny. He frowned, a thought occurring. “And we’re _still_ in this dump!?”

The poltergoost shrugged at him.

“What were you expecting? A life of luxury?” they scoffed.

“Well- no, of course not!” Rick denied, “Although I wasn’t expecting you to ruddy _assault_ me _after_ I’d agreed to your authoritarianism! I find it difficult to believe _that’s_ the only way you can time travel!”

Predictably, the spirit smirked.

“That was just for fun,” they told him.

Rick rolled his eyes.

“Very mature!” he huffed, “Will you at least answer me this?”

The poltergoost inclined their head a fraction of an inch and grunted as if this action caused them great discomfort. Rick crossed his arms and felt his heart jump in trepidation: this was a bloody important question. One that could reveal either heaven or hell… if they were real things that Rick certainly didn’t believe in at all because he was agnostic and religion was for squares. Yet, he _had_ to know; if he really was in the future, it would only bother him later on if he never found out.

“Is Thatcher still in office?” Rick asked, a bead of sweat forming on his brow.

There was another wicked smirk from his resentful companion.

“Margaret Thatcher? Oh yes, prick, _yes she is_.”

“ _Shit!_ ”

That was all the future needed! Another term of office for the Iron Lady! The poltergoost had started laughing at him again so Rick chose the only adult option and wallowed in this severe let-down by pulling a collection of snotty faces. Would there be _anyone_ left in Britain who wasn’t a nouveau riche capitalist by the time she left? _Would there_!?

“But that’s not why we’ve come – get your spotty bottom down the stairs,” the spirit instructed him, quickly breaking his mope as they wiped the mirth from their eyes.

Rick shuffled off down the stairs, a storm cloud of pessimism. This certainly didn’t stand him in good stead for the shock waiting in the drawing room.

“Yes?” the poltergoost probed with mock innocence, obviously knowing what was wrong.

Rick had seized up like someone had shot at him. Was this a _slight_ overreaction? Not at ruddy all! There were four, ever so slightly older people in the house and not a single one of them was Rick!

There was Neil – _Neil, Neil, orange peel_ – with his hair up in a bun! And it didn’t even look that greasy! He looked _happier_! Rick could tell, somehow; maybe it was the faint crinkle lines around his eyes rather than his forehead or the slight upwards turn of his mouth. The man was in the _kitchen_ , for Cliff’s sake, he should have been miserable! Was a miracle due to occur in the next four years that completely rebooted his personality!?

The hippie’s clothes weren’t as dreary either: gone were the dirty grey shirts that usually helped him blend so well into the obscurity he claimed to loathe. They were gone and replaced by a _hideously_ rainbow tie-dyed monstrosity with a peace sign on the front – presumably drawn on carefully in marker pen – proclaiming Neil’s pacifism to all who laid eyes on him. Had he made this himself? For… fun? What? Neil and fun? The two concepts didn’t go together, at least not in Rick’s mind.

Honestly, if it hadn’t been for his familiar flares, Rick might have suspected that this was Neil’s secret twin.

“-oh, and could you check the sprouts, man?” the hippie was in the middle of asking when Rick and the spirit arrived downstairs.

“Just this once, I’m inclined to oblige you,” Mike answered, getting up from the kitchen table to check the large pot on the stove.

Mike, helping Neil with the cooking? This was spooky. All in all, the cool person didn’t look so different – less youthful, certainly, although he hadn’t been as youthful as the rest of them to start with. His dress sense hadn’t changed; he was done up in one of his old three-piece suits, shades resting on his coiffed hair.

“It is Christmas day, after all,” he pointed out genially.

He looked happy enough, which suited Mike rather well. That said, _most things_ suited Mike _rather_ _well_. That was what made him Mike the Cool Person.

“ _Eugh_! Not sprouts, Neil!” Vyvyan suddenly complained from the sofa, twisting his head around to view his housemates properly and immediately grabbing Rick’s rather overwhelmed sense of focus.

Gulping as discreetly as he could, the poet cast a furtive glance between the punk and the poltergoost and winced at their unquestionable similarities, which were infinitely worse with both of them present for comparison. It was the scrunching of their faces; the way they held themselves; the intensity of their gazes. The spirit, who appeared to have noticed his uncomfortableness despite Rick’s best efforts, pulled a shit eating grin. Rick scowled furiously.

“We’ve got to have them, Vyvyan,” Neil complained back.

“Why? Why couldn’t we just tell them to _piss off_ this year?” Vyvyan countered, pushing himself up and over the back of the sofa with the might of his arms alone… and Rick would have been lying if he had denied that this casual action didn’t fluster him just a touch… even if Vyvyan’s inexplicable super strength was nothing new to him.

“Have we all had to pay for the bastards, as well?” the punk groaned.

Oddly enough, he didn’t actually sound angry. Not even fake angry – something he usually put on in the hopes of spooking Neil into submission – something the Vyvyan of 1984 was _definitely_ _not_ above doing.

“It’s not like they were going to pay _us_ for the pleasure of eating them,” Mike pointed out on his way back to the kitchen table, “And tradition’s tradition, Vyv, even the painful ones.”

Vyvyan turned to his left momentarily to flick a piece of lint off the back of the sofa, exposing something that Rick could only blink in astonishment at. The punk had on his jeans and denim jacket – seemingly the same ones Rick had always known him to wear, too. He still had his docs and padlock, his orange hair and a black shirt.

But the emblem _on_ the shirt? It was – and Rick inched closer to double and _triple_ check this because he couldn’t quite believe it himself – a _disgustingly_ happy cartoon of a Christmas elf, complete with a sack of presents and a goofy grin. There was a line of festive looking text below:

_Hammersmith Postal Punks_

“What in the name of Cliff Richard-”

“Oi, spotty! Stop staring at Vyv and pay attention to the scene!” the poltergoost snapped at him.

Did the git really have to be _so_ unwaveringly rude at _every_ opportunity that presented itself? Did they not realise that Rick had already been through enough without their added insults? Peeved, he turned to address them with his left index finger already up and poised for a rant.

“And who, _pray_ , gave you permission to call Vyvyan _Vyv_?” Rick snapped back, twitching at the sheer audacity of this being.

“No one, prick – we’re not _all_ up own arses like you are,” they explained with an unfriendly smirk, “Now: _watch the bloody scene_!”

Rick was about to carry on with how he _wasn’t_ going to watch the scene, as a matter of fact, not until the two of them had sorted out this outrageous nickname business, when the _fourth_ person – the _not-Rick_ of the house – finally spoke up.

“Tradition’s a conservative value, Mike.”

They were a _she_!

Of course, if Rick hadn’t been so distracted by the sight of Neil’s stupid bun, Mike’s unexpected helping hands or Vyvyan’s frankly disturbing shirt design, he would have realised who the newcomer was the moment the punk stood up and revealed her face. She had been sat next to Vyvyan on the sofa since Rick and the poltergoost’s arrival, yet all the poet had been able to deduce with Vyvyan in the way was that this person _wasn’t_ him. _He_ didn’t have blonde hair of that length, for a start.

The _not-Rick_ stood up after her little declaration, coming around to Vyvyan’s side; a cheeky, secretive, somehow all-knowing smile danced on her lips. She was wearing an outfit not a million miles away from something that Rick might have donned himself. He probably wouldn’t have gone for the necklace with the key charm that she was wearing and preferred his red beret to her black fedora – the same one she had worn to their disastrous and _only_ house party in 1982, if Rick recalled correctly. Still, he could admire a good blazer when he saw one; he _was_ the resident blazer-wearer of Codrington Road. Or _had_ been? Oh dear, that didn’t feel great…

“ _Sue from sociology_!?” he finally blurted out.

Incredulity didn’t cover it. Since when had any of _them_ been close with Sue? _Rick_ was hardly close with Sue and he liked to go on as if she was one of his great mates! This didn’t make any sense. All Rick knew was that this creeping feeling of alienation was doing a ruddy number on his stomach!

Times had clearly changed.

“Well done – you’ve passed basic name recollection,” the poltergoost snarked from the archway.

Rick was annoyed enough by their comment to roll his eyes but not to the extent that he thought to come up with a scathingly witty response. Indeed, his mind was elsewhere.

Something about this scenario wouldn’t compute with the poet’s brain; he belonged here, didn’t he? This was _his_ home. He knew he had often thought in the last six months that everything would go to bollocks and he might leave, or even that after university he would never see any of his housemates again, but he hadn’t expected the results to look _quite_ so staggering. If the rest of them were still living on Codrington Road well into their twenties – or thirties, in Mike’s case – why wasn’t he? Rick was naturally attention seeking – he could deny this all he wanted but it was true and deep down he knew it was. Attention seeking or not however, he hadn’t wanted to stand out from the other three so much that they saw fit to replace him! With a girl, no less… not that there was anything wrong with girlies. It was just: why Sue?

“What’s _she_ doing here?” he demanded.

The poltergoost shrugged and scratched at the end of their scythe with a bony finger, an action that caused Rick to shudder violently, almost against his will. Perhaps even _this_ was an attack against his sanity.

“I don’t know,” they lied in the kind of voice that suggested that they definitely did know, “Why _aren’t you_ here?”

Looking across at from their weapon and fixing Rick with a blood red stare, the spirit cocked an eyebrow purposefully slowly. Rick felt his churning stomach flip.

“Uh… Well, I-I suppose-”

“-that Vyv must have realised what a complete and total _bastard_ you really are? My thoughts exactly, prick,” they finished for him, nodding solemnly.

Alarm bells sounded in Rick’s mind.

“No! _No_ , that’s not-”

“-true? Do you see your snotty bot _anywhere_ in this building?” the poltergoost asked with a general gesture of their scythe. “Well?”

 _Oh god, oh god, oh god_ … it was coming true, wasn’t it!? It was _all_ coming true! The big, whopping, gigantic, terrible, inevitable, horrid, fascist fear to end all fears! Everything had gone to shit!

“B-but-” Rick choked out pointlessly, eyes welling up with disobedient tears.

“Vyv must have a thing for anarchist sociology students though,” the poltergoost observed, going back to scratching their scythe and either oblivious to Rick’s pain or just really bloody enjoying it.

“Wh-what do you-”

“Oh!” they quickly cut back across with a cruel grin, stepping towards him until they had backed Rick into the opposing archway, “ _Do_ forgive my technical blunder, fart-pants… I meant _ex_ -students. Sue did actually pass her exams in 1984, didn’t she? Come to think of it, didn’t everyone in your class pass apart from you-”

A mixture of terror, anxiety and fury suddenly bubbled up from the pit of Rick’s excruciatingly twisted innards and into his throat, where it was given activation by his incredibly stressed vocal cords.

“ _SHUT UP_!!!”

Screaming felt good – that was the whole point of screaming – and Rick would know as he had done enough of it in his life. The self-certified anarchist panted, more _gasped_ really, like an athlete after a particularly rigorous sprint. He hadn’t even shed a tear yet, though his cheeks were absolutely burning.

The poltergoost peered at him with _Vyvyan’s_ inquisitiveness, almost animalistic in characterisation – they weren’t phased one blummin’ bit by his outburst! Rick’s heartrate increased in wary anticipation, as if there was _anyway_ he could possibly _win_ in a fight against this spirit!

“You and Fred must have shattered a few windows with your combined volume,” they eventually remarked, freakishly casually, along with a shrug.

 _Fred_? Why did they care what he did with Fred? Weren’t they supposed to be focused on the future, not the past? Yes, that was right; this was a topic change if ever there was one. Evidently, the poltergoost felt Rick’s questions coming before he could voice them and took a deliberate step away from him.

“That was your one and only allowance, prick – you scream at me again and I’ll take you to the end of time itself, kick your teeth in and then leave you there to rot!” they growled, “Got that?”

Still jittery and full of adrenaline, Rick nodded and squirmed away from them, earning himself an eyeroll in return. He wasn’t sure if travelling to the end of time itself was truly something that the poltergoost could do but he didn’t fancy provoking them further to find out. Messing with the supernatural might have been more dangerous than Rick had naïvely first considered. He wished more than anything that this could all be over; his disgusting bed was suddenly appealing more and more.

Yet, the universe wasn’t fond of handing out free passes. At least, not when it had already given one to you during a near-fatal bus crash.

Amongst the older housemates, Rick was discouraged to notice that Vyvyan had rather unusually broken his focus on Mike to grin at Sue. An outsider may have assumed that a grinning Vyvyan was not at all that uncommon – and it wasn’t. However, when Vyvyan grinned at someone _genuinely_ , not just with the typical sadism and insanity he was famed for throughout Scumbag College, then _that_ was something a tad rarer. Rick knew this because he had picked up on the difference between his two grins during their six months together. He liked it when Vyvyan looked at him like he was _actually, maybe, perhaps_ not so much of a bastard and more of an equal. A lover. The punk sometimes dished out genuine grins to Mike as well, although they weren’t as special, at least not in Rick’s eyes.

But this one, this one looked _special_. Why was Vyvyan giving _her_ one of his special, genuine grins? The poet felt a cold sweat forming on the back of his neck.

“Don’t play dumb, Neil – it’s a fair result,” Mike was telling Neil, hand extended towards the taller man expectantly.

“They had a bet, you see,” Vyvyan explained to Sue, moving a little too close to her for Rick’s liking, “Over whether you’d say something political before midnight.”

She chuckled, her grey eyes crinkling.

“Oh sorry, Neil, I didn’t mean to put you out of pocket,” she told him, “Although, you really shouldn’t have bet against me saying anything. The _Socialist Worker_ guys keep ringing me about that article and my head’s _full_ of buzzwords and useless jargon.”

“Yeah, Neil, it was quite stupid of you,” Vyvyan agreed.

“But that wasn’t, like, what I bet…” the hippie mused quietly. His eyes widened in realisation and he frowned. “Hey! Uncool, man – _I_ was the one who bet she _would_ say something! _You_ , like, owe _me_!”

At this revelation, Vyvyan and Sue started sniggering and returned to their _rather snuggly_ seats on the sofa, which only further unnerved and infuriated Rick.

“No, no, Neil-”

He couldn’t look away from them.

“-you bet she’d say something during the Queen’s speech-”

It was revolting. Why were they so _close_ together?

“-and she said something before then-”

Just _what exactly_ was she whispering in his ear?

“-which means you lost the bet and owe me £5.”

Over in the kitchen, Neil rubbed his forehead in utter puzzlement.

“Oh wow… I guess I should really, like, be more careful when I’m making bets,” he sighed.

“That you should, Neil,” Mike affirmed, hand still waiting.

“Well, this is the last extra bread, right, from the, uh-” he lowered his voice considerably, “- _pot_ Neil and I managed to sell last week.”

Mike smiled reassuringly.

“That’ll do nicely, don’t you worry.”

“Thanks, man.”

“You’re very welcome, Neil.”

The hippie rummaged around in his pockets and handed over a notably crumpled collection of notes. If Rick had been paying even the _slightest_ bit of attention to this, the spectacle may have improved his spirits somewhat. As it was, his attention was honed elsewhere.

“Do you think we’ll have enough?” Sue asked Vyvyan.

Rick was considerably more aware of this exchange as he had taken it upon himself to stand directly in front of the sofa so that he could be sure of each and every word his boyfriend and ex-classmate traded. After all, if one of them was going to reveal precisely what was going on, that would be _most_ useful to him. Rick didn’t realise – though the Poltergoost of Christmas Future would have quite happily pointed it out to him – that doing this made him look a smidge off his rocker. The wide-eyed stare and violent chewing of his thumbnail wasn’t helping his case very much either.

He frowned thoughtfully at the pair and tilted his head – was Vyvyan’s hairline receding _already_? Ruddy heck.

“More people get ill and die during winter,” the punk pointed out with the desensitised nonchalance Rick had come to expect from him, “I’ll probably get more shifts.”

Sue let out a short laugh through her nose.

“So we’re going to build our lives on the backs of other people’s misery?” she asked teasingly.

Vyvyan shrugged.

“It’s what the Tories have been doing for years.”

Mutual chuckles were exchanged at this dark comparison – prompting a series of outraged splutters from Rick – before Vyvyan sobered up again.

“It better bloody happen next year, anyway,” he grumbled, “I’ve spent far too long in this place – I need _something_ to change before the decade does!”

Clearly, Rick was missing some very important pieces of information here: namely, all of them. He didn’t like the probable implications of this conversation that were folding out in his mind. In fact, his disliking for them was second only to the mounting concern he had over the fact that not _one_ of the people here had mentioned _him_ , not even in passing. Why wasn’t his lack of a presence more of a common theme?

“To be honest, I have a good feeling about 1989,” Sue ruminated, staring into the middle distance for a second or two before a relevant thought seemingly snapped her back, “Anyway, you’ve got that property viewing lined up for us, right?”

And there were the golden words. The bottom dropped out of Rick’s last remaining futile hopes.

“In Hammersmith, yeah,” Vyvyan concurred.

“Oh yes… _Hammersmith_ ,” Sue reiterated, smirking cheekily once more.

The punk scrunched his face up.

“What?” he questioned in a higher pitch than normal.

Rick started trembling.

“You wouldn’t have picked _there_ out of _all_ _other_ possibilities because of the kids-” she tapped the putrid elf on his shirt, “-you’ve been helping out, would you?”

A pink blush spread reluctantly across Vyvyan’s cheeks and he squirmed mildly. Sue giggled and hooked an arm around his shoulders, pulling them closer together.

“… Just thought I’d keep an eye on the little buggers,” he confessed as casually as he could.

“ _Mhm hmm_ ,” she hummed, taking in his face ever so slowly, which was now closer than ever before to her. “I thought so.”

“Y’know, in case they need a doctor,” Vyvyan added, now beginning to smirk back at her.

There was a glint in his eyes that was visibly present in Sue’s too and, oh, how Rick _hated_ to see it. Hated _them_ , in that moment. How could this be true? How could Vyvyan have _lied_ to him like this? _How_?

“You’re a big softie, Vyvyan Basterd,” Sue said with sickening fondness.

“Interesting hypothesis,” he replied, similarly fond and smug.

“Not just interesting,” Sue told him, “Correct.”

She leant forwards and kissed him. Just briefly. Fleetingly. As if it was something she had done thousands – nay, _millions_ – of times before. As if it was fine and lovely and acceptable and not _nauseating_ to behold. As if Rick wasn’t stood _right in front_ _of them_ watching.

And then she was up and wandering into the kitchen, casting a knowing smile Vyvyan’s way as she went, before Rick’s brain had even _processed_ that the kiss had ended. The poet stared, quite mind-numbingly horror stricken at the only living person he thought had loved him. About five seconds passed – not silent ones, a new conversation had started up over Christmas pudding. His thoughts were radio static.

“Bastard…” he eventually gasped, tasting the saltiness from tears he hadn’t realised he was crying. He couldn’t take his eyes off of Vyvyan. “You _total_ bastard…”

“And here it comes…” the poltergoost muttered to themselves disinterestedly.

“You _evil_ _BASTARD_! You _fascist_! You evil, selfish, _RUDDY STUPID_ _BASTARD-FASCIST, VYVYAN_!”

From over by the archway to the drawing room, the Poltergoost of Christmas Future watched Rick’s emotional upheaval with a face of stone. Unsurprisingly, they had seen this reaction coming: out of the dozens of possibilities, actually _meeting_ the prick and witnessing his dramatic tendencies _had_ pushed the likelihood of this scenario up a few notches on the probability scale. And the bogey-bum wasn’t _nearly_ finished.

“How could you _do_ this after- after how you were in the strip club!? Is this some sort of childish revenge, Vyvyan? Were you lying to me the _entire_ time!?” Rick ranted hopelessly to an audience who couldn’t listen and probably wouldn’t have understood the thought process behind his ravings anyway. “Did you never really care at all? Is everything just some big, _ruddy joke_ to you!?”

“Alright, prick…” the spirit piped up warningly.

“Have you already f-forgotten me, Vyvyan? _Please_ don’t let that be true…” Rick whimpered, unabashed in his heartbreak at this perceived betrayal.

The poet was _begging_ for his words to permeate through to Vyvyan somehow and register with him, for the punk to grant him a response to his questions. Even if the only response was a bitter fight and a beating, he _needed_ to know why and how Vyvyan could do this to him. Could replace him – and with a _girl_! So what if four years had passed!? Why was he the _only one_ missing from the picture here!? _What was going on_?!

Vyvyan was still _just sitting there_ as if Rick didn’t exist at all. He was eyeing up the TV; more interested in whatever the BBC had to say on their relationship than the thoughts of the person right in front of him! Rick glanced up desperately to address all three of his housemates.

“ _How could you all forget about me_?” he asked in a very small and very _hurt_ voice.

“I said _alright_ , prick!” the poltergoost groaned a tad louder. “Have you finished all your poofy weeping and wailing yet?”

Rick jumped at the sudden reminder that there _was_ someone listening to his wretched despair. Glancing over at the poltergoost as if they had just threatened bloody murder, he tore through Vyvyan and the sofa and over to them without so much as a wince.

“You’re really blummin’ enjoying this aren’t you, matey!?” he spat, voice still choked up, “I hate you! You and all your ghostly friends! You’re all utter, utter, utter, utter, _utter_ -”

And then the poltergoost punched him in the jaw with their normal hand and he could do nothing but twist his face in misery and fury. There was an irritated sigh from the spirit in front of him.

“You’re not very good at self-preservation are you, prick? It’s no wonder Fred’s _still_ worrying himself about you!” they mocked.

Rick looked up at them again, quite furious.

“Stop talking about Fred!” he growled, rubbing his jaw.

“I’ll talk about Fred if I want to!” they hollered back, red eyes flashing dangerously.

“Oh! Oh! So you make all the rules, do you? Politician! Fa-”

“-fascist. Yes – _bloody hell_ – yes, _I know_! I know every stupid, pointless, worthless insult your thick skull could and will come up with! _I can see the future_!”

The only time Rick could recall Vyvyan ever seeming as exasperated as the poltergoost did now was when they had rented that video player for the night. Despite all the heightened anger and pain pounding in his head at the moment, Rick _still_ felt ample confusion over why being asked whether they had a video had so deeply infuriated the punk.

He squared up to the poltergoost more directly.

“If you can see the future so well then tell me why the ruddy hell _those two_ were canoodling – _in broad daylight_ – in the _middle_ of the _drawing room_!”

Perhaps worryingly, he and the spirit were now right in each other’s faces again – twistedly reflective of the previous distance between Vyvyan and Sue- no, _no_! Rick shouldn’t think about that. The Poltergoost of Christmas Future continued to glare at him with a concentrated dose of venom, though Rick could tell he wasn’t about to end him. Not yet.

“I think that’d be fairly obvious to anyone, prick – even a blind person!” they instead retorted, “They’re together; you and Vyv broke up.”

What was worse than the verbal confirmation of this terrible fact was the smugness that coated the spirit’s words and expression as they said it. After all of the confusing prompts and lessons of the last two poltergoosts – all theirs and Fred’s hinting that he should _try_ with Vyvyan; that he didn’t have to remain stuck in the loop of the closeted son; that Vyvyan _cared_ about him a great deal… after all of that, the plan had been for this ghoulish bastard to reveal that everything was as awful as Rick had already assumed? Where was the ruddy sense in that!?

“So he _did_ lie to me then,” Rick finally said, “He’s not like me at all! He’s never been in lo-”

“ _Oh, for the love of_ \- no, you big girl, he isn’t homosexual!” the poltergoost interrupted him quickly to interject.

“He’s… normal….” Rick agreed sadly.

The spirit glowered at him as if he had grown a second head.

“What!? Do you really think _any_ of these people could in _anyway_ be described as ‘ _normal’_? Look at those three-” They pointed at Mike and Neil with his skeletal hand, the pair of whom were talking casually with Sue over mugs of tea at the kitchen table, and barked out a laugh, “-a man who made a career out of perpetual studenthood and cons, a stupid hippie who missed the cultural cut off point by about _two decades_ and someone who decided to study _sociology_ for her degree – is any of that ‘ _normal’_ to you?” they exclaimed, incredulous.

Ever suspicious – and, if he was honest, a little insulted at the insinuation that the subject he had also chosen for degree was a point of ridicule – Rick brought his arms to hug his sides. He narrowed his eyes at the poltergoost, noticing with some relief that at least his breathing had calmed down.

“I suppose… when you put it like that… no, not really,” the poet mumbled reluctantly.

“So what if you’re poofier, prick?” the spirit asked him, “Although, actually-” They peered curiously at the cool person and hippie before shaking their head stubbornly. “It doesn’t matter. The point is: you’ve got to _get over_ yourself!”

“And that’s so easy, is it?” Rick grumbled, “When my boyfriend- _ex-boyfriend_ has apparently been as straight as an arrow throughout the entirety of our relationship?”

The poltergoost blinked at him, acute frustration washing over their face.

“For the People’s Poof you’re criminally unenlightened, you know that?”

“ _Excuse me_!?” Rick spluttered.

“Did it ever occur to your _stupid_ face that Vyvyan could be…” they explained patronisingly slowly, pausing for effect, “ _Bisexual_? Brilliant, isn’t it?”

 _Oh._ Well, yes, Rick supposed that was an answer too. He took a moment to process this, trying as hard as he could to ignore the self-satisfied smirk the poltergoost was now sporting on their smarmy, pale face. Yes, if Vyvyan was bisexual then that would explain why he had been so interested in Helen the Murderess’ jugs- breasts. _Breasts_. Which everybody had. Maybe his attraction to women hadn’t been _quite_ as put on as Rick’s definitely had been. Likewise, maybe the previous lessons he had learnt in this nightmare of events hadn’t been _total_ whoppers and Vyvyan _did_ love him. That said…

“Wait a ruddy minute – he’s never mentioned being bisexual!” he cried out indignantly.

The spirit shrugged at him as if this wasn’t a great shock.

“You’ve never mentioned that you piss your girly knickers every night over what mummy and daddy might think of you.”

“And what is _that_ supposed to-”

“That you’re both a couple of sissy virgins-”

“I am _not_ a-”

“-who are too scared of upsetting each other now that everything’s changed,” they deadpanned bluntly, “And now – for reasons beyond my control – that’s _my_ problem too.”

 _What_? Why were they so insistent if they found Rick this dull and annoying? Was this poltergoost a masochist _as well as_ a sadist!? There was something Rick wasn’t being told here and he thought, considering how hellbent they were on ruining his life, it was the _least_ the poltergoost could do to be honest! Unfortunately, the poltergoost already knew that Rick was about to conjure up these very complaints and let out a long-suffering moan at the monotony.

“God, this is getting so incredibly _BORING_!” they growled, defying all the poltergoost-time-travel-magic-bollocks Rick had seen established thus far and grabbing a brick out of the unstable hallway wall.

“Hey!” the poet complained, growing suddenly fearful.

“No. Shut up,” the poltergoost instructed him.

There was a millisecond where Rick began screeching in self-defence – an especially useless form of self-defence in this situation – and then _BASH_! The poltergoost brought the brick crashing into the side of his head with a frightful wallop! Before there could be any fallout from this, the antagonistic duo vanished.

***

Mere moments later, courtesy of Dr Vyvyan Basterd, the TV fizzled on.

“It’s me – Richie Rich – for the _fifth_ Christmas in a row!” everyone’s least favourite comedian announced through the speakers.

Neil, Mike and Sue’s heads turned towards the screen in surprise. The three of them exchanged trepidatious peeks at one another, all talk temporarily silenced. With his back to them – and therefore out of their range of sight – Vyvyan scrunched up his face against the tosser onscreen. The familiar bastard with no talent, stupid hair and an unfortunate penchant for reminding him of a stranger from the past. A dark, often buried emotion flickered across his blue eyes.

“ _I’m completely bloody sick of him!_ ”

***

Once again, Rick landed on his face. Only, this time, he was midway through a scream that was unceremoniously muffled as he hit the snow-covered ground.

“ _Argh!_ ”

The poet jumped up as quickly as he could and wiped at his face and dressing gown in paranoia. This was a world of shadows; the stuff couldn’t touch him… or was _he_ still the shadow? As was now becoming sickeningly familiar, the sound of the poltergoost laughing reached Rick’s ears at about the same time the suspicious thought reached his head that he wasn’t _in pain_. What had happened to that ruddy brick!?

“My rules here, prick,” the spirit answered before he could ask, tapping their scythe against the frozen earth with a crunch, “Do you think I could be bothered to wake your spotty face up and deal with even more of your dramatics? Not bloody likely!”

“Why even bother hitting me at all then!?” Rick snapped.

“I was _bored!_ ”

He rolled his eyes. They were outside now, as the snow had rather rudely confirmed. Warily, Rick glanced around at the frost covered grass and stones; the fancy gates and peaceful silence – they were in a cemetery. His stomach dropped, perhaps more so than it had even in the weird, futuristic house on Codrington Road. A _cemetery_ : where there was _death_ – and _dead people_ – like _his parents_.

Rick wasn’t sure why the reality of the place hit him so suddenly but he had to gasp embarrassingly to catch his breath. The poltergoost only sighed irritably.

“There’s a reason we’re here, of course,” they told him.

“Oh, _really?_ ” Rick replied witheringly.

“Yeah – to see what you’re doing this Christmas. You were _so terribly_ bothered about not seeing yourself around your smelly friends,” they reminded him with a shrug. “I suppose _someone’s_ got to be bothered about where you are, even if it’s only yourself.”

Even though it ought to have been impossible, Rick’s stomach dropped again. What on _earth_ would he be doing in a cemetery on Christmas day 1988? He ran his skittish gaze along the row of snow topped gravestones in front of the two of them before settling on one a few plots away. He advanced towards it morbidly slowly. _Oh blummin’ flip. Oh ruddy, buggering, bloody, bleeding, flipping heck!_

The poet momentarily lost his grip on reality and swayed slightly as he stared at the unforgiving grey monument. Ice was clinging to it like a parasitical rash, which obscured most of its damning inscription and only added to the anxiety he felt brewing in his chest. _What did it say?_ All but one word was illegible. _That_ word. _The most important_ word.

_PRATT_

Rick, for not the first time, found his throat closing – speaking was out of the question but it was as if his body was refusing him even a whimper, lest the grave hear that he was six feet up and swallow him whole. The slightest twists and twitches of his body quickly filled his mind with hypochondriacal fear. Yes, what _would_ he be doing in a cemetery on Christmas day? The same thing everyone else who spent their Christmases in cemeteries were doing… absolutely nothing.

Like they were part of a lonely funeral procession, the poltergoost followed Rick to the graveside. It had to be said: being near someone who appeared to get their clothing inspiration from the grim reaper wasn’t helping Rick’s very real existential crisis one bit. The poltergoost had their face in neutral mode again, however the miniscule upturn of the left corner of their mouth gave the game away that they knew exactly what Rick had realised and – to make matters worse – they were _amused_! They really did hate every inch of him, didn’t they!?

 _Had you_ still _not figured that out yet, corpse-breath?_

Not his ruddy conscience back again!

“But I don’t understand!” Rick protested, trying to block out not only his conscience but the indisputable fact before him. “In 1988 I’ll be-” He paused for a moment to calculate the equation on his fingers, earning him another eye roll. “I’ll be twenty-five! Alright! _Twenty-blummin’-five_! Why the _fuck_ am I dead at twenty-five!?”

The expletive hung in the air for a moment – unfortunately, if Rick had been hoping his use of it would stun the poltergoost, it seemed his biting tone was only helping to sharpen their scythe.

“I _hate_ to be the one to break this to you, prick,” they bemoaned ever so sarcastically, “But sadly you’re still alive in 1988 – you’re also still an _unbelievably_ self-absorbed bastard.”

“ _What!?_ ”

Rick wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or outraged.

“This is your parents’ bloody grave!” they hollered.

Oh. _Ohh_. Now that Rick thought about it, the shape of the stone did look familiar. Oh Christ! What a terrible son he was, not realising something as basic as that! Why had he automatically decided to panic? It was just stupid – him, dead at _twenty-five_? Preposterous! That gave him barely any time at all! No, now why hadn’t he recognised their grave on sight? Could it be because-

“-you’ve not seen the cemetery in snow before. Is that really your best excuse?” the spirit pre-empted him annoyingly once more.

“I’ve not been here since the stone was laid, that’s why!” the poet retorted.

“And why’s that, poofy-knob? Couldn’t be bothered to bring mummy dearest some flowers now that she’s six feet-”

“Shut _up_!” Rick silenced them, heart hammering in his chest as he spoke, “I didn’t want to stand in front of their grave with my boyfriend when I didn’t have a ruddy _clue_ what they might think of me, alright!? Happy now!?”

The poltergoost scrunched up their face.

“…They weren’t going to crawl out of the earth as zombies, you know.”

The absolute _cheek_!

“That’s just about the- that’s just _charming_ , isn’t it?” Rick spluttered furiously, “I suppose you think it’s tremendously witty to come to a graveside and… joke… about…”

His speech faltered as a third figure approached from his peripheral vision. It was a young man – of twenty-five, to be precise – wearing a grey raincoat that had definitely seen better days. He didn’t give off the aura of someone open to a chat; his hands were stuffed into his coat pockets and the bottom of his chin hidden in a black scarf, also tatty in appearance. A pair of old doc martens squelched in the icy mud as he walked, the sound seeming to deepen the scowl on his face each time it was heard. He stopped walking before he passed straight through Rick, revealing that the two of them were the same height. Rick could only blink at him.

The slightly older version of Rick Pratt stared blankly at his parents’ grave for a moment before speaking.

“Another year, another…” he trailed off, nonplussed, looking briefly to the sky for inspiration. He shrugged. “Another load of old bollocks.” He sighed, glancing around as if he had somewhere important to be and was being held up. “Right, well, same time next year then. It’ll just be me again, don’t you worry yourselves…”

And then he was walking away, leaving his bitter words swimming around his younger self’s head.

He was so… so… so _resentful_. It was unreal. It was as if all the teenage angst Rick had ever felt towards anyone was due to bubble over in the next four years and produce some constantly simmering, tightly strung rubber band of a man. Which is what he arguably already was. But Rick would _never_ have been so openly spiteful towards his parents. Not now. Internally, yes, but to voice these feelings _out loud_ years after Rick had first started to feel them? This future wasn’t boding well. He hadn’t even laid a wreath. What was the point of coming to visit a grave on Christmas day if you didn’t bring a wreath?

“Perhaps there is no point,” the poltergoost told him in an oddly detached voice, “Perhaps that’s the problem.”

Of course, Rick would have told them to keep quiet with their ridiculous observations if he wasn’t so keen on finding out exactly what his older self was doing. He hurried through the plot of graves after him and through the creaking fence into the children’s section, ever so briefly recalling a memory of being little and huddling by those very gates, refusing to go through. To be honest, Rick still wasn’t over the moon with the idea now. He _didn’t like_ visiting _her_. Why had he taken up the hobby in 1988?

“You know, it’s funny,” the poltergoost called to him from a few steps behind. They were speaking unnecessarily loudly, naturally, though that was shaping up to be the least of Rick’s worries. “It’s funny how you’re so adamant never to discuss her in any meaningful way… yet her name’s the one you say most often, isn’t it?”

There was a hint of mockery. Not as much as before or in the house; cemeteries could subdue even the crudest. But the mockery was there.

Rick turned around mid-stride.

“Don’t be disgusting, Vyvy-”

He almost said it.

The three of them stopped at a small, unassuming plot. The white pebbles that had decorated the edges of the stone since before Rick could remember were still there, although they didn’t seem as neatly arranged. The fixed pot on the earth in front was unusually empty…

The grave that the elder Rick had come to pause before was that of the sister he had never had.

_VIVIENNE IVY PRATT_   
_WAS BORN ASLEEP 13 TH MAY 1960 _  
_FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS_

It was strange, really, when he thought about it now, in the middle of the cemetery with her name staring at him like the barrel of a gun. Rick had never felt particularly close to his sister – what with him being born three years after _the event_ – but something told him that perhaps she had shaped his life in a far more meaningful way than he had previously considered. _Yes_ , it was true that his parents had felt that extra bit blessed when he came along and _yes_ it was also true that they had consequently spoilt him rotten and let him get away with a lot more than they should have done. This wasn’t a new revelation; Rick had known this all his life in one way or another. The occurring realisation here, whilst watching his older self begrudgingly visit graves on Christmas day, was that her lack of presence throughout his childhood – the very fact that he didn’t know her at all and never would – had trapped him. How could he bring himself to dare to _really, truly_ let his parents down when he was all they had? When _she_ might have been better? This was more serious than bad grades or stroppiness: he was their one shot now, their golden child. Everything that was _important_ in his life had to go perfectly, didn’t it?

For _her_. Because Rick’s life wasn’t just _Rick’s_ , was it? It was what could have been Vivienne’s too.

Vivienne and Rick.

Rick and Vyvyan.

There was no avoiding them, was there?

“It’s Christmas,” the older man mentioned pointlessly to the grave, his voice not as callous as it had been before, “Really, I think you would have been enjoying it a ruddy lot more than I am.”

With a jolt, Rick realised that his older self was crying. Not hysterically, like he was prone to doing, but silently. Privately. _Painfully_. For a split second, he allowed himself to imagine a world where an older sister was stood next to him and was hugging his sorrows away.

“ _Viv_ …” he whispered. His voice cracked.

“Maybe… in some other universe… things worked out the way they should have done,” older Rick told the grave more briskly, wiping at his eyes, “And you’re here instead.”

_Instead. Instead of me._

Did he really believe that was the way things were supposed to be? Did Rick hate himself _that much_? A deep pang in his chest verified that yes, maybe he did. Maybe he would. And it felt _rotten_.

“It’s not her fault,” the poltergoost spoke up unexpectedly, adopting the rare inside voice Vyvyan used every now and then.

Rick jumped and scoffed.

“Of course it’s not _her_ blummin’ fault!” he hissed.

“And it’s not their fault.”

“I know-”

“And, unfortunately, it’s not your fault either.”

Rick’s mouth opened in shock and he quickly shut it so he could swallow.

“Wh-what?” he pressed tentatively.

“Well, it’s not, prick – sometimes life is just incredibly, gastronomically _shit_.”

He didn’t respond, still too shocked at their rather sensitive – considering who they were – defence of him to come up with anything worthwhile. In the deathly quiet, Rick’s older self began walking away, leaving the cemetery behind. The poltergoost gestured with their skeletal hand for Rick to follow. Something dark barely concealed beneath the paleness of their face told him that he wasn’t going to like what came next.

***

Effectively stalking twenty-five year old Rick across London felt quite different to how stalking Vyvyan, Mike, Neil and Kevin on their route to the concert had done. This felt _wronger_ – which wasn’t a word, Rick was aware, but it was the only descriptor he could think of to fit the situation. He told himself that it wasn’t simply because he was spying on _himself_ that this felt so unnatural, as he had spied on his past self earlier and a lot of other people – past, present _and_ future – besides. It wasn’t that he thought that he was more deserving of privacy than anyone else either, lord no! Alright, maybe a bit- no, _no_ , not at all. He just… this Rick… this Rick _worried_ him.

Despite having left the cemetery, the man appeared to be growing _increasingly_ agitated. It wasn’t even as if there were very many people walking about on Christmas day to provoke such a reaction from him – they were presumably all at home with their families, like normal individuals. No, whatever was bothering Rick was in his head, thundering away like bad thoughts often did. It made the poet’s stomach go all funny.

Still, London wasn’t entirely deserted; the older Rick made what had to have been deliberate points to sneer and grumble at whichever strangers he came across… when he was certain they weren’t within earshot. These instances prompted the only remarks the poltergoost would voice on their journey to wherever it was they were going.

“See? Still a bastard.”

When the three arrived in Westminster – something that took a wretched amount of time, owing to the lack of tubes and Rick’s apparent continued lack of a car – things only became more confusing. What in the name of Cliff Richard would Rick be doing in Westminster on Christmas day? Unless he was here to protest, which seemed unlikely; it wasn’t as if there would be any nasty MPs lurking about for him to tell off. Astonishingly, the older Rick didn’t even glance once at the historic palace that served as the workplace for his mortal enemies. Not even a look up at Big Ben! Of course, when Rick and the poltergoost followed his older self into a nearby, ugly looking apartment building and watched him pull out a key, his lack of awe for the place he must have seen every day made slightly better sense.

But why should he be living here?

“Oi, _spot face!_ Have any fun moaning at the dead people this time?”

The unmistakable voice of Drop Dead Fred rang out from within the gloomy flat before the front door was open more than a crack. Rick jumped about a foot in the air at the shock – _Fred!?_ He turned to the spirit beside him but swallowed his questions whole before they could even form in his mind because _they looked_ _furious_. A seething kind of furious; quiet and cold and more deadly than any petulant outburst Rick could ever have come out with. Their red eyes were practically _glowing_ – or was that just the fluorescent lighting of the corridor? The elder Rick groaned and entered the flat, flicking on a similarly fluorescent bulb and revealing the bleak habitat within.

There was nothing personal to this place: no pictures or books, no standout furniture or colourful carpets or walls. It was perhaps the most drab dwelling Rick had seen in his life – and he had lived on Codrington Road!

“I _can’t_ live here…” he found himself mumbling, almost fearfully.

It was simply too depressing! There wasn’t anything lively or indicative of character here! Nothing screamingly _Rick_ to declare his anarchy to all who entered; nothing exciting and modern to highlight the changing times! What was ruddy _wrong_ with this version of him!?

“Oh, you live here, _prick_ ,” the spirit assured him with all the animosity they could muster.

Rick caught his older self’s reflection in a mirror that was positioned on the opposing wall to the fireplace. They had all shuffled through short hallway and into what appeared to be the living area, his older self dumping his coat and scarf in a pile as he did so. _Jesus Christ_. He somehow looked _worse_ than he had in the cemetery! Sure, his spots were gone and his hair wasn’t as greasy – oh, his _hair_! His trendy youth braids were no more, replaced by whatever messy nest of brown _this_ hairstyle was supposed to be. Rick felt the back of his head self-consciously, as if worried something was about to snip his braids off any moment now. This Rick had eye bags – big ones – and was too pale, too thin, like a feeble impression of what Rick _should_ be. His scowl was so alarmingly deep, his mouth appeared to be permanently stuck at a downturned angle and his posture wasn’t great either – now that he was indoors and able to relax, his shoulders had sagged as if they bore the weight of the entire world.

“I’m not in the mood,” he finally spoke. Rather tersely.

He brought a hand up to rub his face and didn’t offer a single solitary peek at the imaginary friend lying across his sofa. Or the mass of colourless objects posing as a sofa.

Fred. The only reassuring feature of this place. The younger Rick wanted to breathe a sigh of relief at the familiarity of seeing him; Fred always knew what to do. But… but… something was terribly, awfully wrong. Instead of bounding up to pester this weird Rick or bombard him with questions and pointless rubbish, he was still lying there. Draped, Rick wanted to say, because that implied Fred was being dramatic and looking for attention. But he wasn’t. He _really_ wasn’t.

He hadn’t changed as much as Rick had in some respects. After all, he didn’t age, did he? Fred was still instantly recognisable to anyone who had ever had the _experience_ of meeting him; it was only once Rick _really_ looked at him that it was obvious anything was wrong. He seemed fainter – his colours were washed out. It was as if someone had been sucking the life out of him, which was a grim prospect. Not only were his clothes paler and less _Fred_ but his hair wasn’t as orange either, it was more auburn. And his face: well, Drop Dead Fred looked sickly. Very, very sickly. Still stubbornly upbeat, but sickly.

“No…” Rick mumbled. He whipped around to view the poltergoost, who by the looks of things had been trying to burn holes into the back of Rick’s head by the sheer force of their glare alone. This, obviously, wasn’t a good sign, though Rick couldn’t dwell on it. “Tell me what’s wrong with him! _Now_! He’s _Fred_ , he’s not supposed to be like _this_!”

The spirit considered him for a moment and then let their gaze drift to the imaginary friend dangled along the sofa. Something changed in their expression; something softened.

“But _spot faaaace_ , this is _important_!” Fred whined, and it was only then that Rick noticed the odd way the imaginary friend was watching his older self – he was almost wary.

The older Rick ground his teeth in annoyance. Honestly, his behaviour was starting to embarrass the anarchist, not that he would admit this out loud. Why was he acting so beastly towards Fred – _FRED_ – when the guy wasn’t well? The two of them had bickered in the past, certainly. _Many_ a time, in fact. Yet the pure contempt that was reeking from his older self now was far stronger and far _nastier_ than any negative emotions Rick recalled having ever felt towards Fred.

“No, it’s not! You’re just a figment of my over-ruddy-active imagination – _nothing_ you say is of the _slightest_ importance!” older Rick snarled.

There was a subtle wince from Fred at this indictment, but this was clearly a reaction he was keen to cover up as much as he could if the quick jutting out of his chin was anything to go by; a proud twat was Drop Dead Fred. Though, he needn’t have worried as Rick wasn’t paying him nearly enough attention to notice. He was more focused on angrily drawing the curtains that had presumably only been opened by _someone else_. Still, apparently Rick’s acidic temperament wasn’t enough to get Fred to back down.

“Everything I say is _very important_ because I’m Fred and I’m great,” he corrected him – and then coughed – before continuing, “And anyway, you don’t _have_ an imagination anymore, spot face. Just check your fancy-pants answering machine, alright? Your cousin with the funny voice rang.”

“I don’t care…” Rick rebuked, his stroppiness seeping through.

He plopped down on to an object resembling the old rickety chair and massaged his temples.

“ _Kivin Turvay_ doesn’t sound so good, maybe you should call him back,” Fred went on as if he hadn’t heard Rick, mimicking his cousin’s accent perfectly, “What if he’s got cornflakes disease and you never hear from him again?”

“Good!” Rick snapped and the younger Rick cringed.

Yes, he _definitely_ owed Kevin something of an apology…

“But it’s _Christm_ -”

An abrupt opening of the front door cut Fred off and distracted everybody’s attention. Both Ricks twitched like deer in the headlights at the sudden interruption and immediately turned to see who the culprit was.

“It really is fortunate that I have a set of keys to this shabby place,” came a drawling, rather aloof snide remark, “The corridors of this ‘building’ are just _ghastly_ – certainly no place for the MP with the largest majority in the House to be kept waiting.”

A man who looked to be in his early thirties strolled into the room. With him came all the confidence of someone who had never been told “piss off, Pwatt, no one wants you here” by an upper-class schoolboy on the first day of term. This man was so well groomed, Rick doubted he had a single atom out of place. _Disgustingly_ expensive tailor-made suit; _perfectly_ styled golden curls that were _just_ the right length; straight teeth that _glimmered_ in the stark lighting – this stranger was unquestionably a very attractive man. In fact, Rick had to berate himself for the way his nether regions ached appreciatively at the mere sight of him in the middle of the dreariness of their surroundings.

Yet, though he had surface charms, this man was quietly alarmingly savage; a sadistic, _sociopathic_ streak simmered away beneath his surface, only noticeable to the discerning onlooker. Generally, this didn’t include Rick but the poltergoost was mildly impressed to see unease sprawled across his features. The twinkling blue eyes of the man were cold and his smile sharp, not to mention the near permanent upturn of his nose. Whoever he was, he unnerved Rick almost as much as he enamoured him and that – that couldn’t be good. The lethal stranger’s empty eyes found his older self and fixed themselves upon him. He smiled a dangerous smile: unfriendly and ravenous like a shark, though undeniably charming all the same.

“I’m a busy man, after all,” he quipped.

The older Rick shot to his feet, very nearly knocking the rickety chair over as he did so. Sweat was already gleaming on his brow, his eyes manic and slightly unfocused. If Rick peered close enough – which he was – to his utter humiliation he spotted a flush of pink across his cheeks.

“A-Alan!” older Rick choked out in surprise.

“Alan,” Rick repeated pointlessly, as if this would somehow conjure up knowledge of who precisely _Alan_ was.

He glanced over at Fred, who shockingly was glowering with a ferocity that Rick hadn’t seen in him before. The imaginary friend on the sofa jumped to his feet – and then rubbed his head wearily at the quick change in position – before crossing his arms petulantly.

“The _Bastard Man_!” he seethed, “What’s _he_ doing here today!? Get rid of him, spot face – go onnnn! You know you want to!”

Alan the Bastard Man gave no indication that he was aware of Fred’s presence. Older Rick’s terrified gaze, on the other hand, kept flitting between the newcomer and the imaginary friend, as if he wished the earth would swallow him up whole. If this strange behaviour concerned Alan, he again didn’t let it show; was the man used to people quivering in vaguely aroused terror whenever he entered the room or something? Instead, whilst sighing disinterestedly, he gravitated over to the wall with the mirror, causing the younger Rick to instinctively take a few steps in the opposite direction.

“Yes, that is the name my mother bequeathed to me. I’m sure one of these days you’ll get the hang of it… Richard, isn’t it?” he sneered sarcastically.

 _Must be a square if he calls me that_ , Rick’s mind reasoned unhelpfully.

The older Rick inclined his head in an ashamed, subordinate apology – an action that made the younger Rick’s toes curl with the most surreal form of second-hand embarrassment imaginable. Fred let out a frustrated groan and stomped across the room until he was right in front of Alan’s smug face.

“ _Ugh_! No one wants you here, Bastard, so just _piss off_!” he demanded, “Go on, spot face – call him a fascist, for old time’s sake!” Fred looked fleetingly hopeful. “I bet his face would be _priceless_!”

Unfortunately, judging by his now twitching eye and clenched fists, his charge didn’t seem to agree. The imaginary friend scrunched his face up at Alan, absolutely outraged. Frankly, Rick was beginning to feel the nostalgic anxiety of wondering _what was Fred going to do_ when he finally was given the opportunity to strike.

“If – and I realise I’m hedging my bets here – that sad sponge you call a brain is working today, you’ll doubtless be wondering why I’ve decided to grace you with my presence-”

But Alan chose this moment to glance narcissistically at his reflection – _narcissistically_ being the only appropriate adjective, considering the way his pupils dilated and he started to smirk. Immediately, Fred’s fist went crashing into the mirror and the bloody thing shattered with an almighty _SMASH!_

“Oh, shit!” Rick’s older self cried out, losing the little colour in his face disturbingly quickly.

To be fair, Rick himself momentarily forgot how to close his mouth. If he wasn’t much mistaken, the poltergoost nearby had started to snicker, though it was hard to tell thanks to Fred’s ear-shattering cackles and wicked declarations about the brilliance of "breaking noises". His older self didn’t appear to notice when they turned to violent coughs but Rick suddenly found himself wishing the imaginary friend would carry on with his previous wild laughing.

Alan had flinched at the unexpected shattering of something so close to his person; the stiff way he was dusting off his suit for any flecks of glass whilst quietly fuming didn’t suggest he was mightily pleased. The increasingly distressed version of Rick looked around desperately for something to fix this.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry, Alan! Really, I have just _n-no idea_ how that happened!” he simpered rather pathetically, wringing his hands.

“I do!” Fred piped up enthusiastically, “He’s _so_ _revoltingly ugly_ that the mirror cracked!”

“Shut _up_!” Rick finally acknowledged him with a hiss.

“I beg your pardon?” Alan inquired, eyebrow raised and face becoming steely.

Somehow, even though he was perfectly safe as he was, the thought of being on the receiving end of this man’s anger _petrified_ Rick. Clearly, his other self felt the same way: he was _already_ shaking again and had his hands raised in surrender.

“No, no! I, uh, just meant that you should _shut up_ your _wallet_ … b-because I’ll pay for a r-replacement suit for you, al-alright?”

Fred exhaled sulkily; the suit was completely unscathed.

On the other hand, Alan seemed placated by this promise. Rick couldn’t stop his lip from curling as he watched the older man smile a little _too_ widely on his way towards the still trembling other Rick.

“I don’t understand _how_ I know him or _why_ he’s in my… house,” the poet informed told the poltergoost indignantly, who merely shrugged at him. Rick spluttered, “But _you_ know! You must! You know why Fred’s so sick too, don’t you? You great, moody-”

“Don’t insult me, _prick_ ,” the spirit warned him with that gravelly voice from earlier, even holding their skeletal hand up for emphasis, “It’ll make sense soon – well, unless you’re even stupider than you look.”

God, when would this _end!?_ His imaginary friend had been left to pace the floor at the outrage of being denied the ability to insult the Bastard Man to his face and his charge’s ridiculous refusal to do it for him. Truthfully, Rick was inclined to take his side – despite this technically meaning siding against himself. If Fred hadn’t been so pale and… well… _ghostly_ , Rick was sure steam would have been rising from his head at the injustice.

“-a rare wise thought on your part not to waste your overly generous pay packet on _frivolous_ decorations this Christmas, Richard,” Alan was jeering unpleasantly, “Now, as to why I’m ruining my own day by calling at your joyless hovel…”

The disarming manner in which Alan continued to smile as he patronised and insulted Rick would have been unsettling enough but the subconscious way that Rick observed his older self sit back down on the rickety chair to reduce his height really took the cake. He had barely made a sound, allowing the bastard before him to mock him as openly as he wished. No wonder Fred was so put out – this wasn’t the Rick he had helped build up!

“I want you to organise a new year’s party at Ingleborough Hall,” Alan informed Rick idly, inspecting what were surely _perfectly_ manicured nails.

“A party?” Fred called over with what was clearly growing interest, “Something exciting at last!”

Evidently, the concept wasn’t sparking the same delight from Rick, whose eyes immediately bulged in horror.

“A party? At Ingleborough Hall?” he repeated.

Alan sighed impatiently.

“Yes, yes… and everyone important in Haltemprice _must_ be there – Sarah’s father keeps threatening to deselect me…”

A brief, rather revealing contortion of deepest loathing flashed across Alan’s face, leaving his eyes alit with whatever sadistic fantasies his mind was concocting for _Sarah’s father_. It made the younger Rick shiver. Still, there was one word in that sentence that sat with him worse than all the rest: _deselect_. What was it Alan had he said upon his arrival? Something about an MP with the largest majority in the House? Was that _him_? Rick was working for an _MP_!? This was disgraceful! He regarded Alan with disgust anew.

“Alan B’Stard: elected Conservative MP for Haltemprice in 1987,” the Poltergoost of Christmas Future finally revealed, “ _Very_ nasty piece of work.”

“ _B’Stard_?” Rick scoffed, “Well, that explains Fred’s nickna- HE’S A _TORY_!?”

The poltergoost only cackled.

“But that only gives me a week!” the other Rick squeaked out at the fascist Tory fascist who was a Tory and a fascist – and it was quite surreal for Rick to witness his own face twisting down in panic-fuelled misery. He. Was. Working. For. A. Blummin’. _Tory_.

Alan gazed at him blankly for a moment.

“So? You’re my political agent; it’s your job,” he pointed out.

“But… but I’ll never be able to get around the Haltemprice Conservative Association in a week, never mind the _entire_ ruddy constituency!”

Alan still kept up his pretence of confusion.

“…And that’s _my_ problem, is it?”

“Alan, please-”

“ _Richard_ ,” Alan cut him off warningly, his tone betraying that his interest in the other man’s worries was waning rapidly. He smiled at him humourlessly. “ _I don’t care_. I only hired you from the _gutters_ of unemployment because there are more chances of _Maggie herself_ sleeping with my wife than you!” The self-satisfied revulsion that was so sharp in his voice almost stopped Rick’s heart. _Alan B’Stard knew his secret_. “I am _not_ interested in giving charity to someone who withers at the first sign of an honest day’s work, Richard – this isn’t the dole office! There are countless other _pointless ordinaries_ out there with useless degrees and not an ounce of political nous in their tiny, _neanderthal_ brains and I expect some of _them_ might be a little more grateful if they were offered the chance to work for the rising star of the New Right!”

Was this hell?

“Oi!” Fred, who had been listening to this exchange with increasing agitation, snapped. He stormed over to the unequal duo, “Tell Mr Arrogant-Bastard-Hair to _piss off_ , spot face! You don’t _need_ him!”

By this point, Rick appeared so shaken by Alan’s tirade that he barely seemed aware of Fred at all. He shook his head, dangerously close to humiliating tears.

“I-I’m sorry, Alan, I wasn’t thinking…”

“ _NO_!” Fred howled, pulling at his hair.

“I know thinking requires a _dreadful_ amount of mental will for someone like you,” Alan retorted with false pity. He sighed and offered Rick the least intimidating smile he had worn yet on his visit. “Look, if it’s really such a bother for you… just use Piers as catering staff. I doubt he’s got anywhere better to be.”

“Oh god, the _catering_ …” Rick whispered to himself, growing quietly insane.

“Just quit on him, spot face!” Fred urged.

Clearing his throat, Alan rolled back his left sleeve to reveal a very vulgar watch. A twisted smirk blossomed on his lips.

“I have somewhere… _worthwhile_ to be now,” he revealed rather lecherously.

“Go on! Give him a _real_ shock!” Fred was still pestering Rick.

“I would tell you to enjoy the rest of the day but – _ah_ – I expect you’ll be rather _busy_ for the next week, won’t you?”

He was so unforgivingly horrid. He was taking _pleasure_ in this – from piling anxiety and hopelessness upon this future Rick. He _revelled_ in the hold he had on him. His grin was practically animalistic! Rick stepped between his future self and Fred, hoping beyond hope that the desperation on the imaginary friend’s face was about to hit his older self like the amber liquid and give him the instigation to tell the fascist right where he could stick it. But the man just continued to tremble and mutter incoherent gibberish to himself.

“ _Merry Christmas, Richard_ ,” Alan hummed on his way out, not bothering to wait for a response.

 _Oh dear_.

“In another universe, I think I might like him,” the poltergoost mused, as if to deliberately spite Rick.

“Stop it…” he moaned uselessly, “Just stop it…”

His older self looked to be on the brink of a total meltdown and Fred – especially a Fred in this weakened state – was probably not the best person to deal with it. How could someone who thrived off chaos settle someone so utterly _messed up_? Alright, he had done it before… likely hundreds of times… but there was something odd and feral in Rick’s eyes now. Something that looked like doom.

“This is… all your fault,” he eventually croaked out.

Thankfully, Fred still had it in him to be offended.

“ _I’m_ the one trying to help you, spot face! You can’t blame _everything_ on me!” he complained, although that hint of wariness was back again.

“Yes, I can!” Rick responded, glassy eyed and still choked up, “I can blame Drop Dead Fred for anything! _Everything_ is your fault! _Drop Dead Fred did it_!”

He started laughing madly and Fred squirmed backwards. The younger Rick was beyond words – seeing what he was to become was the most terrifying secret he wished he had never been shown. Tellingly, the imaginary friend winced as his charge’s laughs turned to bitter sobs of self-pity. Slowly, he drew closer to Rick again and crouched down beside him.

“Hey, spot face,” he started unusually softly, which made both Ricks’ hearts ache, “ _Rick_. Please listen to me. You don’t have to keep doing this to yourself.”

Older Rick sniffled and Fred smiled hopefully, apparently believing he was getting somewhere.

“It’s _Christmas_ , spot face – you’re supposed to have fun. Forget about Bastard – _just for one day_ – go out and… and we could have a snowball fight! Yeah! That would be great, wouldn’t it?”

Only Fred could talk about something so childish with such conviction and enthusiasm without coming across as at all forced. He nudged Rick’s arm.

“Come on, it’s still light outside-”

“No.”

“Ugh, fine! We could build a snowman if you want to be really girly-”

“I said _no_.”

It was the firmest Rick had sounded since Alan B’Stard arrived. Fred swallowed as if something not that nice had just occurred to him. From his facial expressions, affronted wasn’t quite the right word. Apprehensive, perhaps. It was at this moment that Rick caught the poltergoost’s eye and realised with a sickeningly jolt why it was that they hated him so, _so_ much. That was the face of someone addressing the one who had taken _everything_ from them. If he was correct – which Rick _knew_ he was – how could they not hate him? This Rick was capable of anything, he was sure. He was _horrified_.

“Hey, spot face,” Fred tried again with some urgency, “Where’re those stupid, boring pills that useless doctor gave you? I’ve just thought of something I could do with them.”

“So have _I_ ,” the older Rick assured him, though it didn’t sound like an assurance. More like a threat.

“What are they talking about?” Rick asked the spirit, “What _pills_?”

“Rickle, use your head…” Fred reasoned with him, “This won’t help you.”

“Won’t help _you_ , more like!” Rick hissed, “You know I’ve only got one left – that’s why you’ve been so sycophantic with me! You know I’m winning!”

“No, no, spot face, please – you’ve got this all wrong-”

“I’m not well,” Rick told him plainly, lip wobbling, “I-I’m not well a-and you’re just a symptom – you’re stopping me from getting better, you bastard!”

“But that makes _no ruddy sense!_ ” Rick shouted at himself – who couldn’t hear him. He could feel his hysteria growing. “You _know_ Fred helped us! How dare you, you ungrateful… ungrateful _fascist!_ ”

“Spot face-”

“It’s about bloody time I bit the bullet and grew up,” older Rick rambled as he reached into his trouser pocket and produced a slightly fluffy green pill. For an instant, he looked as though he might reconsider and throw the thing away; his face was distraught with confliction. However, he shook his head once more and spoke again, growing hoarse, “The real world isn’t about _i-imaginary friends_ and always ruddy _breaking_ every _blummin’_ thing you set your eyes on! Real life is hard and it’s shit and _I hate it_ but I hate _you_ more! _I_ want _you_ to _piss off_ , Fred!”

There wasn’t a being within that soul crushing room who wasn’t radiating some level of pain. Whether it was the Rick of 1984 and his uncontrollably rising self-loathing; Fred and the deep sense of betrayal that came with hearing the charge he had watched over in one way or another for seven sodding years wanted him gone; the Rick of 1988 and the gaping wounds in his mind that he had never tried to stop festering; or even the Poltergoost of Christmas Future, who cared about Drop Dead Fred more than they had ever confessed and who knew what unspeakable act was about to befall him. It was, quite simply, the worst-case scenario. It was bollocks.

With a strength and a calmness the poet hadn’t known Fred possessed, the imaginary friend took a deep, definitive breath. His eyes were deliberately avoiding the pill.

“I’m not going anywhere, spot face,” he insisted, even though his face said he was resigning himself to otherwise.

“Oh, yes you are!” Rick taunted him. Stubbornly, he wiped his eyes before presenting Fred with one last hateful glare. “Goodbye forever, _Drop Dead Fred_ …”

And he swallowed the pill.

The effect wasn’t instantaneous: Fred didn’t pop out of existence the millisecond the capsule slid down Rick’s throat. Rather, like had already been occurring, his colours sped up in their process of fading. He looked down at his arms, which were rapidly becoming transparent, with a mixture of sadness and fear – something the younger Rick found intolerably gut-wrenching, even if his older counterpart was currently watching like some kind of morbid vulture. Right before the imaginary friend known as Drop Dead Fred vanished from existence, he seemed to suddenly notice the other Rick watching him. The Rick who had snot and tears and Cliff knew what other lovely substances dripping from his face at the sight of something awful that was entirely _his_ fault. Surprisingly – or maybe not, when all was said and done – Fred smiled at him like friends should. And then he was gone. Forever.

“ _No…_ ” Rick gasped.

“Yes…” the poltergoost corrected him, voice thick.

Rick didn’t even wait or try to think things through – he propelled himself at this downright wicked twenty-five year old Rick Pratt and began hitting, punching, kicking, _screaming_. Anything that would leave a mark… but, of course, nothing did. His limbs passed straight through him; the bastard didn’t even flinch!

He stayed unflinching for about ten seconds. Presumably – it was the only thing that made sense – he was in some kind of shock. Then he moved, just his head, to look at his surroundings. For a reason that his predecessor couldn’t possibly comprehend at the moment, he was _hopeful_. Yet, as Fred had warned him, nothing had changed. Well, _everything_ had changed, but it also hadn’t. The older Rick sniffled and his face collapsed into full-blown misery.

“Oh, Cliff!” he suddenly screamed, making the other Rick jump, “ _What have I done_!?”

Both Ricks quickly ended up on the floor. The Rick who was now alone in the world lay on the spot where Fred had been and bawled like a baby, probably ruining his neighbours’ Christmases. His crying was grief-stricken, yes, but it was largely wave after wave of regret. The other Rick – the _important_ one – had fallen at the poltergoost’s feet, at their mercy. He found himself grabbing at their black robe, desperately clinging on to anything, _anyone_ who could ease the screaming in his head. Unfortunately for him, the poltergoost wasn’t in a comforting kind of mood.

“He could have just left you and helped someone else, you know! He didn’t have to put his neck on the line for you!” they hollered at him, at last making it undebatable that yes, they did fucking care about people. About _Fred_.

“Th-then _why_ did he!?” Rick choked out with wide, wet, considerably _lost_ eyes.

“Because he’s a stupid bastard and he cares about you!”

“But-”

“Yes, I know! ‘ _Love is for girls and girls are dis-gus-ting!’_ ” the poltergoost mimicked the imaginary friend, causing Rick to burst into fresh tears and cling to their robe all the tighter. “Use your head for once, prick! Why else would he have set poltergoosts on your bogey-bum!?”

Yes… yes, that was right, wasn’t it? Fred _had_ done that. He had done that and this meant that… that this hadn’t happened yet, had it? This hadn’t happened at all! Fred was still alive – _thank_ _Cliff Richard and every blummin’ one of the Shadows_! Rick wanted to sing! He even would have sung _Do They Know It’s Christmas?_ because that’s how thoroughly, thoroughly relieved he was. And yet…

“…D-does he know? Does he know what I’m going to _do_ to him!?” the poet whimpered. He tried to recall if Fred had been at all funny with him before this whole poltergoost business had started; remembering anything that wasn’t his imaginary friend’s demise was proving difficult.

“No,” the spirit assured Rick bitterly, “No, that’s my _lovely_ secret. And you wondered why I was so short tempered…”

Still jittery and finding it excruciatingly difficult to block out the sound of his older self sobbing, Rick pulled himself to his feet and attempted to reassert his rationale.

“B-but this couldn’t possibly happen! I could never get _this_ resentful a-and evil!” he babbled determinedly, “I’m working for the _Tories_ , for Cliff’s sake!”

The poltergoost sneered at him.

“And yet you do. Interesting how that happens, isn’t it? _Completely_ unexpected.”

“Please! P-please…” Rick begged them, unravelling again quicker than a runaway roll of toilet paper, “Tell me how to stop _this_ from happening! Tell me how to make things work with Vyvyan and how to make everyone forgive me! _Tell me there’s a way for me to stop worrying over what my ruddy parents might think of me_!”

A sigh.

“I can’t tell you how to do anything, prick – you’ve got to get out of your shitty nappy and do things for yourself-”

“But-”

“-because if you keep letting everything simmer, I can promise you that the future isn’t a very nice place.”

“I don’t want this! I promise I’ll change, I will – _I’ll get better!_ ” Rick vowed. And he had never meant something so much in all his life.

“Will you?” the spirit probed suspiciously, narrowing their eyes.

“Yes! Yes, _fuck yes_!” the poet wailed, “I’ll talk to Vyvyan! And Kevin and Mike and – ruddy heck – even _Neil_! I will! I-I’ll get help, alright? I _won’t_ let myself turn into _that_!”

He gagged at the thought and hugged himself. _Please let this end, please let this end, please let this-_

“A moving plea from Richard Pratt,” the poltergoost assessed, worryingly monotone.

There was a note of finality in that sentence, as though a verdict Rick wasn’t aware had been up for contemplation had just been reached. The poltergoost raised their scythe.

“Wh-what are you-” Rick stammered.

“I think we’d all be a lot safer if I just ended things now,” they told him with a shrug.

Rick’s eyes bulged and he very nearly passed out on the spot.

“No! No, _please!_ You don’t have to do this-”

A fist to the face sent him hurtling to the cheap carpet of the flat. After a sluggish groan, he managed to peek back up at the final poltergoost through hazy vision and feebly shuffled backwards. Predictably, the Poltergoost of Christmas Yet To Come grinned Vyvyan Basterd’s most sadistic and malevolent grin and swung their enormous scythe towards him. In the seconds before it was due to pierce Rick’s stomach – the sound of it whooshing through the air somehow overriding everything else – Rick yanked open his mouth and screamed for all his lungs were worth:

“ _VYVYAAAAAAN_!!!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh! There we go! As always, a few notes:
> 
> *The Poltergoost of Christmas Future is my favourite poltergoost because they're grumpy and scary looking but have a soft spot for Fred. <3 Also, that 141 years comment... 141 years before 1984 it was 1843, which just so happens to have been the year of publication for the original story (apologies again to Charles Dickens XD).  
> *For those wondering who she was, Sue was the character played by Jennifer Saunders in the episode Interesting (S1E5)... because, I mean, A d e and J e n ! I do actually have a backstory for how Vyv and Sue get together in this version of the future - it happens on election night 1987 - which could maybe, possibly, someday get written.  
> *Hello, bisexual Vyvyan. If I were him, I'd be a bit pissed off that Rick is learning all my secrets when I still don't know his. Let's see if the poof finally opens up a bit in Stave 5...  
> *It really was criminal of me to tag this for Filthy, Rich & Catflap when I only have Richie Rich appearing on the telly every now and then. I'm sorry! Someone go and write a proper FR&C fic!  
> *Rick's sister! I really hope I've mentioned her enough in the previous chapters for that grave scene to feel earned. I decided ages ago to call her Vivienne and her full initials are V.I.P. (because she kinda is).  
> *Future Rick is a right bastard, isn't he? Can't decide whether he needs a hug or a slap... maybe both. I mean, he's sold out and joined the Tories! The worst Tory! He's really not okay.  
> *And neither is Future Kevin. :(  
> *ALAN B'STARD. Okay. I love The New Statesman; I think it's brilliant. I was hoping I'd be able to mimic his speech mannerisms when writing for him here but I'm not sure how well I did. Either way, as you may have noticed, I like describing his mixture of charisma and sadism and I'm sure he'll appear in something else I write... *cough* Dizzie Lizzie! *cough*  
> *Alright, alright, alright - I'm sorry for doing that to Fred! I am! It was partly plotted out as revenge for what EvilEd did in basically all of Drop Dead Frederick (which you should go and read if you haven't already). I'm aware I write Fred a liiiiitle too softly in ABC but, to be fair, he does have softer moments.  
> *That last bit was like a Rik Mayall clone gathering, wasn't it? Actually, that doesn't sound so bad.  
> *HAS THE POLTERGOOST MURDERED RICKOLAS!?!?!?!!!?
> 
> Thanks for reading part 4! :)


	5. Stave 5: The Ruddy End of It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dammit, couldn't quite finish it in time for Christmas! I promise I tried but it just... really wasn't coming to me. Then again, I suppose time in 2020 has been even more of a social construct than normal so it doesn't matter too much. I've had to chop and change bits of this chapter - Richie and Eddie were meant to appear but, alas, it wasn't meant to be. I've reread this too many times to be able to tell whether it's a satisfactory end to the fic that's been bubbling away in my mind for a year XD... buuut I'm quite proud of myself for finishing it nonetheless. This bastard is over 60,000 words long, meaning it's over double the size of A Christmas Carol! I put that down to my propensity for waffling, yet this still means that ABC is the longest thing I've ever written. Woah.  
> Thank you so, so much for reading, it really means more to me than I can say. This was originally an idea I had in late 2019, inspired by other fandoms I'd seen parody A Christmas Carol and the fact that I studied the text for GCSE (and I do actually like the story). I didn't plan on it taking a year to complete but at least it's done and dusted before we enter 2021! XD  
> I wrote this with a few fellow TYO fans in mind as a sort of Christmas present so I hope it's been an adequate addition to the scumbag fandom. Alright, I'll stop being cheesy and pretentious now...  
> Hope you enjoy!

“ _NO!_ Please don’t kill me! I-I’ve got money, I-”

Amidst Rick’s weeping and wailing for the life he hadn’t realised he was so desperate to keep a matter of hours ago, a rare rational thought occurred to him. Well, _occurred_ might have been the wrong word; it was made pretty blummin’ obvious when, following an almighty creak and the distinct feeling of falling, his face smushed itself firmly into the dusty floorboards of his bedroom. _His bedroom_. Rick knew it was before he even dared peep to check – his own distinct odour built up from three years of anarchic living was already assaulting his nostrils.

Startled out of his distress by the sudden change in atmosphere, the poet’s teary eyes shot open and he gasped. Holy Cliff! This _was_ his room! There was his record player with _Devil Woman_ still sat motionless upon it; there were his teddies on his bed, freshly separated from the throws of love-making; there were his revolutionary Lenin and Trotsky posters, hanging loosely off the wall; and there was his blazer crumpled on the floor, just as he had left it. With a strangely emotional and rather pathetic whimper, Rick grabbed the item of clothing and held it close. He was back on Codrington Road, where _he_ lived with _his_ boyfriend and two other fascists whose company Rick had grown accustomed to a _little_ more than he would have liked but who he wouldn’t, in that instant, have traded for anyone else in the world! The poet could have sobbed with happiness. He was _alive_ : _alive, alive, alive_!

The jarring memory of the Poltergoost of Christmas Future interrupted his thoughts for a moment and Rick quickly pulled himself up to check around anxiously for their presence.

“They’re gone…” he muttered to himself in shock, “They’ve pissed off, _finally_!”

And – judging by the fact that he wasn’t howling in agony nor the floor coated in his blood and entrails – their scythe hadn’t even touched him! Ha! Well, you’d have to get up pretty early in the morning to murder Rick Pratt, wouldn’t you? Tough luck for that frightful fascist!

“O-oh… Oh, thank Cliff!” Rick sighed in relief.

Interestingly, he sounded a _lot_ more relieved than his bluster-filled line of thought had implied. He had a life to live and make the most of and-

There was a tentative knocking at his door… _shit_. He dropped his blazer.

“Erm… is everything alright in there, mate?” the sleepy voice of Kevin called through the wood, “Only your screaming woke me up and I was a bit concerned you might have been, like… attacked by a burglar or something…”

Whilst Rick’s gut reaction was still to tell his cousin to bugger off and leave him to celebrate in peace, Rick was also trying to do _better_ , wasn’t he? He owed Kevin that, didn’t he? At least an explanation of sorts for his behaviour, anyway. Besides, squaring things out with him was doubtlessly going to be _a lot_ ruddy easier than squaring things out with Vyvyan. The poet swallowed nervously; flip, he had _so_ much to do…

“Though, I suppose if there had been a burglar, I would have seen him first, wouldn’t I? Unless he came through the upstairs window… but I didn’t hear a crash-”

Sprung from his thoughts like a jittery jack-in-the-box, Rick very nearly tore his bedroom door off its hinges in an attempt to open it. There was Kevin: on the other side, fist poised in mid-air to knock again and _still_ wearing that blue anorak. Did he sleep in the ruddy thing? He looked mildly surprised at his cousin’s sudden appearance, though that could have been exacerbated by how messy sleep evidently made his hair. Undeterred, Rick stepped out on to the landing and offered him what he hoped was a cheerful and friendly smile but what in actuality was quite a manic one. Rick made a show of pretending to brush his own hair from his eyes so that he might wipe the tears away, suddenly self-conscious at being so vulnerable in front of the Redditch lad.

For his part, Kevin didn’t comment – although the creasing of his brow clearly denoted that he _had_ noticed the tear tracks.

“Ha ha, no burglar here… uh… _Kev_ …” Rick eventually said, cringing as he did.

Kevin’s eyes widened at this unexpected nickname.

“Oh! Oh, good – because Christmas day is probably the _worst_ time of year for burglaries,” he pointed out.

Rick nodded and let himself glance momentarily at Vyvyan’s closed door. He felt his stomach clench with guilt and nerves. It was time to sort this mess out; as if a warning kick up the bottom by Fred and his _charming_ friends hadn’t been motivation enough!

“Yes, yes, well… I suppose you’ll want to know why I’ve been behaving like such an old, fascist-flavoured square-” Rick froze mid-sentence, “Hold on, _what did you just say_?”

“What? That it’s the worst time of year for burglaries?” Kevin questioned, “I suppose maybe there are other times like your birthday or a wedding or a funeral-”

Oh, _ruddy heck_! Rick really was straining here not to tell him to just _shut up_! His heart had gone into overdrive at the mere notion of what his cousin had implied.

“No, before that!” Rick couldn’t help but snap. He cleared his throat and smiled smarmily. “I meant, _dear cousin_ , what day did you say today is?”

A concerned frown enveloped Kevin’s face.

“Are you feeling alright, Rick? Today’s Christmas – it’s 25th December!”

“No… no, today’s _26 th_ December – Christmas was yesterday.”

“It really wasn’t, mate.”

“Wh- yes, it was! You, Mike, Vyvyan and Neil went to Soho to see some puerile heavy metal band and Vyvyan beat up the bass player!”

Kevin laughed.

“I think I’d remember if I’d done something as interesting as _that_ , Rick. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

He reached over to check Rick’s forehead and the poet batted his hand away irritably. What the bloody heck!? How could it be Christmas day today? Rick had _seen_ Christmas 1984 roll out with the Poltergoost of Christmas Present! He had watched in horror as Vyvyan got drunker and drunker and angrier and angrier – he had witnessed him chuck the telly out of the window!

“The telly…”

That was it!

“Do you want me to wake up one of the others for you or something?” Kevin asked him through a yawn, causing Rick’s attention to flit back to him.

“No! Uh, no… no, just come with me….”

Perhaps with less care than he owed to the one person in his family he knew for sure was accepting of his poofiness, if his ramblings from last night – or was that tonight? – had meant anything, Rick dragged the tired Kevin back downstairs and into the drawing room. To his utter astonishment, not only were the decorations from the second poltergoost adorning the tree and walls, but the telly was also sat in front of the window as if it had never even moved! And the windows weren’t smashed! Rick was aware of how often broken windows needed mending around this place but he doubted Mike had had time between worrying about Vyvyan and getting his beauty sleep to instruct Neil to get handy with the DIY. With a ridiculously happy grin, he turned to his cousin, grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.

“Do you see that!? _Do you_!?” he cried out.

Kevin winced and rubbed his right ear. He blinked blearily at the general drawing room area.

“Could you be more specific? There’s quite a lot to see.”

“The telly – it’s still there!” Rick clarified joyously.

“Yeah, yeah it is…” Kevin agreed, thoroughly confused by his cousin’s abrupt change in temperament and just a tiny bit wary.

“This is _brilliant_!” Rick announced. He finally let go of Kevin and marched over to the telly, inspecting the dust gathered on top of it with bulging eyes at the whole… _certainty_ of it all. Grinning widely, Rick turned back to his cousin. “This is brilliant, Kevin – it’s Christmas day and the telly’s in one piece!”

By Cliff, if he didn’t look and sound absolutely _potty_! Not that Rick minded, of course; at that particular moment he wouldn’t even have minded if Thatcher came flying through the non-existent front door with the express purpose of kicking him in the knackers! It was Christmas day and he had been given a do-over! Fred wasn’t dead; Vyvyan hadn’t pulverised a diva; Sue hadn’t taken his place – there was still a chance for some _good_ to be done.

“Merry Christmas, Rick,” Kevin told him with a smile.

To be honest, as he sat back down on the sofa he had been using as a bed and snuggled back under the threadbare blankets provided, Kevin couldn’t truly find it within him to view his cousin’s happiness with any cynicism. Something must have been bothering him last night and a rest had sorted him out – that must have been it. Sleeping didn’t usually sort out Kevin’s problems if they were big ones but then Rick had always been quite lucky, hadn’t he? Well, apart from the whole _dead parents_ thing-

“Gosh, the fascists really did it all in one night!” Rick was wittering on with himself: hands on hips, eyes misty, snorting for England. “Fred, you complete _bastard_!” he yelled up at the ceiling, without a single hint of malice, “I love you, you… bloody _stupid_ teacup!”

Almost like a reminder of the things still required of him, the twinkling tree caught the poet’s eye. He gasped.

“Who’s Fred?” Kevin inquired drowsily, his eyes not still open.

“The most bed-wettingly brilliant anarchist there is!” Rick responded excitedly as he rushed over to check who had bought presents for who.

“That’s nice…” Kevin mumbled.

The badly wrapped bunch were still huddled together – though Rick never _had_ seen any of them unwrapped. There were two contractually obligated large ones for Mike and two expectedly small ones for Neil. Vyvyan’s two were not bad sizes either but, of course, Rick was the only housemate to have three whole gifts under the tree. A desperate-to-please big one from Neil, an average looking one from Mike and that small, curious red one from Vyvyan. In another set of circumstances, Rick would have used this as evidence for his obvious position as most popular member of the flat… yet today, he had to acknowledge that _actually_ he had the most presents because he had been a misery guts and not done any Christmas shopping. Cliff, what time was it? Surely not too late to go out and buy _something_? It was still notably gloomy outside and the other three weren’t even up yet!

He could do this. And why? Because he was Rick – the People’s Poet! His _people_ needed presents and he had the bread! Quite a lot of bread, his recent inheritance not being too modest and all. Yes, it was Christmas day and the shops would be closed but money talked in Thatcher’s Britain and Rick spoke the lingo… or something…

Gearing himself up for a spending spree like none he had ever been on before, the poet dashed back up the stairs to get changed out of his dressing gown and into his blazer – and to use the lavvy, because it had been a long night, after all.

“What did he say? _‘Dear cousin’_?” Kevin mused to himself as fatigue overtook him.

By the time Rick returned back downstairs – about fifteen minutes later, properly clad out in his most _Rick-like_ of clothes and with a fat purse stuffed hastily into his inside pocket – Kevin was long gone and mumbling about fish-eating bananas in the kitchen sink. Rick shook his head, glad that the task at hand had left him able to smile at his cousin’s weirdness rather than sneer.

And out he went.

***

It was when Rick looked around to find himself in Hammersmith that he realised daylight had broken across the skyline. This was _slightly_ concerning as he really had been hoping that he would manage to sneak out and back into the house before the residual winter gloom evaporated. After all, whilst not one of the young ones were what could be called early risers, today _was_ Christmas.

“Bloody hell… bloody hell… bloody hell…” Rick muttered to himself, glancing fretfully at the empty and securely locked up shops that sprung up every now and then.

It would be just ruddy _typical_ if he couldn’t get home in time to stop Vyvyan going on an alcoholic rampage! The poet could already see the poltergoosts’ smug faces.

Unfortunately – or not, considering that hustle and bustle during a last minute shop were the last things _anybody_ needed – Hammersmith, like the rest of the London boroughs he had scoured, was quite devoid of people. In fact, Rick wasn’t even sure what had brought him to this place to begin with; it was hardly the shining metropolitan metropolis of fashionable stores! If it wasn’t only _Vyvyan’s_ present that he was still yet to buy, Rick might have called it a day and made his excuses to whoever else he had forgotten but as his frightfully bad luck would have it, Mike, Neil and even Kevin’s Christmas gifts were snugly resting in the plastic bag he must have dragged around half of London. Really, where all this sudden energy for city crawling was coming from, Rick hadn’t a clue.

But what should he get Vyvyan!?

Rick was useless at homemade things – plus, with such little time, the rush involved to create the gift would be _oh so_ obvious and he simply _couldn’t_ afford to put his foot in it. Not now.

It was humiliating to recount so soon after but his frenzy to buy the things currently in his possession hadn’t exactly involved the cool, street-wise Rick Pratt, the beacon and voice of his generation, demanding dowdy, out of touch shopkeepers let him into their stores and allow him to purchase whatever he wished… rather, his mission had involved the weaselly, ever so slightly grovelling Rick Pratt, the last-minute, stupid bloody student and young adult unprepared for grown up life, having to whimper and beg those who didn’t look _too_ scary for a little of their time this Christmas morning. The money in his purse had helped, as he knew it would. Still, the whole experience had left him feeling a bit of a twat. Maybe that would have brought a grin to Vyvyan’s face? He could only hope.

The familiar feeling of dread was starting to get unbearable when _finally_ one particularly depressing street offered Rick a blessing. He almost missed it, his eyes tiredly trawling over the window of yet another corner shop: jaffa cakes, jaffa cakes, tin of tuna, jaffa cakes, hoola hoops, issue of _The Beano_ dated 27th December 1969, another tin of tuna, jaffa cakes-

 _Hold on_.

Rick stopped dead in the middle of the street. A memory from last night hit him.

Little Vyvyan. 1969. _The Beano_. Fire.

Like a creature possessed, he quickly flung himself at the shop window, nose pressed up against the glass like a pig’s snout and eyes squinting to make sure that he had seen correctly and – yes, yes, he had! For some inexplicable reason, there was a fifteen year old copy of a kids’ comic lounging on a food aisle in this dreary Hammersmith corner shop. What were the chances of that!? This had to be some kind of sign – Cliff himself must have left it there!

“ _Argh_! Why are no ruddy shops _open_!?” Rick whined.

He kicked at the wall of the shop in frustration… and then winced in pain at what was very possibly a broken toe. But there was no time for that! The sign in the door clearly read _CLOSED_ and yet… and yet… there probably weren’t a lot of people who would ignore someone banging the door and ringing the bell all Christmas morning, were there? Smirking in that rodent-like way to himself, Rick set about doing what he was best at: causing a scene.

“EXCUSE ME!!!”

_Bang, bang, bang! Riiiiiing! Riiiing!_

“EXCUSE ME, I NEED TO SPEAK WITH THE OWNER OF THIS SHOP!”

_Riiiiiing! Bang, bang! Riiiiing!_

“IT’S REALLY BLUMMIN’ IMPORTANT, ACTUALLY!”

_Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing!_

“HAVE A HEART, YOU MISERABLE, HORRID, _OLD PERSON_!”

_Bang, bang, bang!_

Now huffing and puffing for all he was worth, Rick was about to try something more drastic – namely, chucking something through the window – when an angry cockney voice from within the shop rang out.

“Alright, you bloody menace, alright!”

A fluorescent light flicked on to reveal a scowling middle aged man with one of the _worst_ comb overs Rick had ever seen. For some reason, he was momentarily overcome with the memory of the TV detector man, though he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. The man stomped over to the door and unlocked it, fists clenched and eyes narrowing in contempt. A disgusting wave of dust and out of date food wafted in Rick’s general direction and made him gag.

“Speak up, you little Herbert, or I’ll call the pigs!” the man threatened him.

Luckily for Rick, his adrenaline and insolence were coursing through his veins.

“Oh! And I suppose that’s how you treat all potential customers, is it? Tory!” he sniped.

The man only seemed to be getting more incensed.

“’ _Potential customer’_ , are you stupid or something? The sign says closed!”

“But there’s something in your shop that I want to buy!”

“It’s Christmas day, you spotty spiv! Now, bugger off!”

He was about to slam the door in Rick’s face, grumbling incoherently about the youth of today and wanting to be left in peace to watch James Bond. Rick’s eyes widened in panic and he forced himself into the doorframe.

“Oi-”

“No, wait!” he pleaded, pulling out the still substantially loaded purse, “I have money! Lots and lots of money!”

“Oh?” A grasping, venal grin lit up the man’s face and he beckoned Rick in as if they were old friends. “Why don’t you come over to the till, sir? I’d be only too happy to serve a, uh, _smart young man_ such as yourself…”

Rick smiled back dishonestly, deciding to let the man think he was hoodwinking him. Which, to be fair, he basically was. It was just that Rick was _fully aware_ that the likely eyewatering sum he was about to hand over for an old comic was as obscene as the fascist before him knew it was. He nabbed the old _Beano_ and held it as though it was a holy relic. Vyvyan _had_ to still remember that Christmas so long ago, he just _had_ to! Otherwise, this was going to be pretty blummin’ out of the blue! The man let himself around to behind the till.

“Will that be all for sir? I couldn’t interest you in our excellent line of chocolate hobnobs-” A crash through the door on the left side of the shop startled Rick momentarily. The man let out a weary sigh and rubbed his temples. “Excuse my neighbours. Couple of mad gits.”

***

By the time Rick arrived back at the house on Codrington Road, Christmas day had undeniably started. All along the street, he could see people in the windows enjoying themselves: unwrapping presents, playing games, eating amounts of food that their new year selves would likely regret. The sight made his heart twinge for Christmases gone by but his only real hope was that he wouldn’t be too late home to have missed the others. The last thing he needed was to confront a drunk Vyvyan in a strip club in Soho! He remembered Colin’s bloody face – he knew _that_ wouldn’t end well.

Rick’s worries were fleetingly interrupted when he spotted something out of place on the front path.

It was icy; nothing amiss there. The only thing likely to be amiss were Rick’s feet as they _missed_ solid ground after slipping up. No, the curious phenomenon was a message written in the ice on the pathway: _scratched_ was perhaps the more adequate word. A childish scrawl – though it was probably difficult to write fancily on ice – interspersed with letters drawn the wrong way around. Rick’s heart jumped into his throat as his brain joined the startling obvious dots.

 _MERRY XMAS RICKOLAS YOU POOFY SPOT FACE!_  
 ~~LOVE~~ HATE AND VIOLENCE  
FRED

He was still about. Well, of course he was still about, Rick hadn’t murdered him horribly yet- and never ever bloody ever would, matey!

But Fred was nearby? Or had been. He was still making sure Rick wasn’t sneaking off to gloomsville in the first crap taxi that came along. The thought was oddly… touching… Rick found himself smiling quietly. Although he was going to prove to everyone – Mike, Neil, Kevin, Vyvyan, Fred, _himself_ – that he could forge a better path and didn’t need Fred to chase after him hopelessly, it was nice to be reminded that someone who wasn’t currently very angry or very dead cared about him in this big, scary world. Cliff, he was turning into a right soppy girlie in his maturity! Not that there was anything wrong with being a girl.

With a snort of satisfaction, he treaded carefully over the ice and into the shared house, diving around the broken door with care so as not to announce his return. Almost automatically, Rick could hear the blare of the telly. And what a familiar blare it was.

“Are you all having fun? We’re having buckets of fun here in the studio, aren’t we ladies and gentlemen? _Aren’t we_!? Ha ha ha…”

Right-wing comedians. Rick rolled his eyes. Right-wing blummin’ comedians.

The moment he jumped out into the hallway couldn’t have been chosen better: as Rick had witnessed with the Poltergoost of Christmas Present, Mike, Neil and Kevin were all zoned out from lack of interest in Richie Rich’s abysmal Christmas show. Vyvyan, on the other hand, had just that instant hauled the telly up and was about to lob it furiously through the window when-

“ _SURPRISE_!” Rick screeched.

The dozy three immediately shot back to consciousness; Mike might have even let out a rather high-pitched yelp, though no one would be mentioning that. More importantly, Vyvyan hardly reacted at all. His head snapped towards Rick like a whippet and his face scrunched up in that distinctly _Vyvyan_ way but, to Rick’s acute terror, distant behaviour and tantrums on Christmas eve couldn’t be fixed by ridiculous Santa routines. This was likely more _confusing_ for the punk than anything else.

“Rick, man, that was really heavy – you could have given us all, like, heart attacks!” Neil whined from the sofa.

Interestingly, he and Mike hadn’t rushed to disentangle themselves. They simply mustn’t have realised their close proximity yet; Rick bearing a wad of gifts being such an awe inspiring and distracting sight. The poet laughed at the hippie to cover up his nerves at finally facing the group.

“Oh, don’t be such a party-pooper, Neil! I fooled you all, didn’t I? You all thought I was upstairs sulking in my room when I was outside the _entire_ time!” he taunted in as good-spirited a way as he felt able with Vyvyan’s blazing eyes burning into him.

The punk still hadn’t put the telly down.

“Hold on a minute, Rick, you didn’t leave your bedroom all night,” Mike pointed out suspiciously, “Now, I’m no Houdini but I know a magic trick when I see one – where’d the sack come from?”

“ _Ah_ …” Rick winced.

The cool person stood up, pushing his shades up off his face and into his hairline so that he could scrutinise the so-called People’s Poet more closely.

“It’s pod slicing time, Ricky. What’s a sociology student want with Santa?”

Ricky. _Ugh_. If only that name wasn’t forevermore tinted in Rick’s mind!

“Hey, Mike! Don’t hassle the pods-”

“Well, Michael, if you must know,” Rick started loudly, eyes flitting to Vyvyan’s every few seconds, “I changed my mind about Christmas and I-I bought you all presents.”

It was a sort of peace offering, in a way. _Here, take my gifts and stop questioning me_. Rick knew that it wasn’t good enough, not really, and he would have to explain himself and what had led to last night’s showdown in more depth sometime soon. But not right now. Not when Vyvyan _still_ hadn’t put down the ruddy telly.

“So I wasn’t dreaming then,” Kevin mused, getting up from the rickety chair and rubbing his bottom, “I saw Rick this morning when I was still half-asleep. For all I knew, he could have been an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato-”

“Yes, yes – thank you, Kevin. I think we’ve established that I’m _real_ and I _do_ exist,” Rick interrupted him.

“No one’s questioning that, poof.”

With a _thunk_ , Vyvyan plopped the telly back in place in the drawing room. Good; Rick had already righted one wrong about today then, hadn’t he? The punk’s voice lacked its usual volume yet retained its gravel. His expression seemed guarded and yet intrigued. Not _totally_ cut off. Rick supposed he _had_ given Vyvyan quite a bit to be intrigued about since his rather theatrical entrance. Like a couple of grotty lovers – which is what they were – the punk and the poet stared at each other. There was the noticeable awkwardness that existed between any couple after a spat and one sided delve into a partner’s past, present and future.

Indeed, though Rick wanted desperately to say something to him, he couldn’t force his tongue to engage. It was quite a miserable reminder of why Fred had set the poltergoosts on him in the first place – opening up to people wasn’t an easy thing to do. He sighed. In his defence, having an equally awkward audience in their three onlookers didn’t help.

“Mike?”

“Yes, Rick?”

He broke eye contact with Vyvyan to look directly at the man he was addressing.

“I’ve bought the house for you. Merry Christmas.”

There was a beat where nobody reacted.

“ _WHAT_!?” three sets of voices exclaimed.

Thank god, Rick thought, thank god that had cleared the air! He began sniggering at how understated he had made what was actually quite a ruddy big deal sound. Mike staggered over to him in disbelief.

“Say that again?” he requested, staring dumbfounded.

Neil and Vyvyan both nodded.

“Yeah, man, like, repeat what you just said,” the hippie urged him.

Rick rolled his eyes at them all, suddenly feeling embarrassed.

“I know it’s not very anarchic to own your own house or anything and _I_ _know_ that we might not all be living here one day…” he rambled, “But no one in their right mind would buy this nutty place and I just thought… it was the least I could do.” Mike continued staring at Rick in utter shock. The poet frowned in concern. “It’s not a joke or anything, Mike, I promise. I’ve got the deeds in your name and everything – look.”

He rummaged around in his shopping bag and handed the cool person a bunch of boring legal papers. What Rick had done may not have been _completely_ legal – but then, he didn’t care about fascist laws. It was only the Balowskis, anyway. They had less chance of causing actual harm than the SDP and they _had_ agreed.

It was Vyvyan who next found his voice, as Mike was far too lost in the wording of the documents in his hands.

“Does this mean we don’t have to pay rent anymore?” he asked.

“I think it means we have to pay rent to Mike,” Neil clarified.

“No,” the cool person told them, “No, you don’t.”

There was something different about his tone, something choked and delicate. None of the others knew how to react to an emotional Mike – least of all Rick, who had been hoping for cheers rather than tears. How else was he supposed to get things back to normal?

“You alright there, Mike?” Kevin piped up gently.

Rick gave him what he hoped was a grateful glance. Mike nodded and wiped his eyes, still not daring to peek up from the documents.

“Yeah, Kev, yeah. I’m diamond standard, always have been,” he assured him, clearing his throat. “ _Rick_.”

“…Yes?” Rick reluctantly responded.

Mike clapped him firmly on the back, knocking the wind from his lungs and causing him to splutter, which the cool person didn’t seem to notice. He looked up at him with that prize-winning grin he was so sure emptied knickers and waved the papers at the others.

“I don’t know what to say to you – I’ve never received anything like this before!” he explained through a chuckle of delirium. “Rick, how on earth did you afford this? Even a cheap property is no meagre figure of dough.”

Rick scratched the back of his neck feebly.

“My inheritance…”

A profound look spread across Mike’s face as he patted Rick’s shoulder. Was it gratitude? Understanding? Sympathy? More disbelief? Was it all of those things at once? Was this what being validated by Mike the Cool Person felt like? Rick could hardly believe it was happening after all these years; he was speechless! A part of him wanted to go up to Vyvyan and boast that he was Mike’s favourite now but he couldn’t, _dammit_! Everything was happening at the wrong time!

To anyone outside of Rick’s head, it appeared that the poet had simply frozen up in shock. His face had gone slack, his jaw ajar, even his usually fidgeting hands were still. This was perhaps why one moment Mike was stood before him and the next he found that the cool person had retreated to the kitchen table to read over the documents again whilst Neil was waving pointlessly at his face from rather too close for Rick’s liking. All without his noticing that anyone had moved. Instantaneously, he scowled in disgust and swatted Neil’s hand away.

“Don’t be silly!” he chastised him.

“Oh… sorry, Rick…”

Now, Rick _knew_ what he was doing, the no-good, attention-seeking bastard. He _knew_ that he was deliberately and callously attempting to guilt Rick – and after Rick had bought the whole blummin’ house for Mike! That was the only explanation as to why Neil’s feelings were so ridiculously fragile. He sighed a frustrated sigh and pulled out the personalised horoscope book he had scooped up for _considerably_ less than the house on Codrington Road. It was probably, in all seriousness, the most infantile book Rick had ever purchased. Only hippies believed in all that star sign codswallop. And yet… it was Christmas. He smiled painfully and handed it to Neil.

“ _Merry_. _Christmas_. _Neil_.”

“Oh, wow! Thanks, Rick – you, like, really didn’t have to get me anything!” the hippie gushed, mood lifted. Rick was about to move on from him when his face dropped again. “Hey, wait… this is for Geminis.”

“Yes? So?” Rick prompted impatiently.

“It’s just that, well, I’m a Taurus,” Neil told him.

A _what_? No, Neil had _definitely_ been a Gemini the last time he checked… which had been _never_ , fair enough, but the point still stood.

“You told us it was your birthday in June,” Rick countered.

“Umm…”

It took one look at the hippie’s shameful face for Rick to work out what had caused this mix-up. On any other day, he would have screamed the roof off at Neil for his stupidity. Unfortunately, now that the house’s general wear and tear matter a little more and he was _trying_ to be nice, that wasn’t really an option. Instead, he had to settle for a mild groan of annoyance, one only exacerbated by the smirk he could see pulling at the edges of Vyvyan’s mouth in his peripheral vision.

“You were lying about when your birthday is? Ruddy heck, is there _anything_ you won’t do to try and impress us, Neil? Blummin’ Christ…” Rick reached into the bag again and pulled out the receipt. “You can get it swapped in the new year, alright?”

Maybe this would teach him not to be such a complete and utter drip.

“Thanks, Rick… uh, Merry Christmas…” Neil mumbled.

“Yes, Merry Christmas, _hippie_ …”

Quite frankly, Rick needed to preserve his tolerance and level-headedness for bigger conversations, ones that _weren’t_ stupid misunderstandings that _weren’t_ even _his_ fault! He moved on to Kevin, who blinked in surprise that he was even being acknowledged.

_Here goes everything._

His cousin had absentmindedly returned to the rickety chair during Rick’s unplanned bout of gift giving, with his arms crossed in a sort of hugging gesture and eyes fixed on the floor. Though he had stood up after noticing Rick before him, the poet could tell that he was still somewhat dazed.

Thanks to last night’s shenanigans, Rick had been given a small amount of insight into the innerworkings of Kevin Turvey’s mind and it seemed that it wasn’t always a fun place to be. Maybe his life was just _too boring_ and he needed it pepping up a bit? Cliff knew how _that_ was going to happen! Rick had been forced to visit him in Redditch as a child – the bratty part of him had always suspected that this was only because his mother felt guilty about her brother walking out on Kevin and his mother – and it was a _criminally_ boring place to visit. Living and growing up there must have been even worse.

Although, that wasn’t very open-minded of Rick, was it? Redditch simply wasn’t as posh as… whichever hoity-toity part of East Anglia he hailed from and wasn’t about to let anyone identify, not even an omniscient narrator. Rick didn’t want to be _classist_ , of course not: he was the People’s Poet.

Now that this internal debate had been held, he did his best to smile winningly at his cousin.

“Is something the matter, Rick?” Kevin asked, frowning in confusion.

“Not at all-”

“Because you look like you’re in pain-”

“Nothing’s the matter, Kevin!” Rick assured him a _little_ too harshly. “ _Sorry_. I… I got you a present too, okay?”

He reached into his bag and pulled out a battered copy of _The Daily Mirror Book of Facts_. Kevin’s eyes widened like saucers.

“This is very unexpected, Rick – I haven’t got you anything in return,” he told him guiltily, “I suppose I should have, since _I_ came down here, but I just wasn’t thinking and money’s a bit tight at the moment-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Rick interrupted him. He forced a snort, “I mean, this is hardly the Christmas present to end all Christmas presents, is it?”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Kevin took the book Rick was offering him and scanned its cover like it was the most fascinating thing he had seen in a month.

“Nah, there must be _loads_ in here!” he insisted, “Uh, thank you, Rick.”

“That’s- y-you’re welcome-”

“Yeah, including who produced the world’s stupidest bottom burp!” Vyvyan spoke up out of nowhere.

The two cousins turned to look at the punk, who was still hovering around the telly with the twitching temperament of someone about to do something rash. Perhaps putting him off until last hadn’t been such a great idea, even if it was easier. Rick sighed anxiously and glanced back at Kevin.

“I’ll, um, I’ll talk to you later… _cuz_ …”

He strode away quickly, lest Kevin’s reaction to this be anything more than he could handle. Yet. As it was, the anoraked man simply blinked a couple of times and then sat down with his gift. Neil soon joined him by sitting on the sofa; even if his present was temporarily out of order, at least they could talk about Kevin’s for a bit. That was, until inevitably somebody wanted something from the hippie.

Rick, meanwhile, had cautiously approached Vyvyan. The punk had watched him every step of the way.

“Are you doing an impression of a snail or something?” he jeered, “Only I think you’ve gone a bit overboard in the ugliness department.”

“That’s cheap, Vyvyan…” Rick mumbled.

“Yeah…” The punk sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

His lack of willingness to up the ante suggested to Rick that all hope wasn’t lost. Couldn’t be. His fingers not quite operating at full capacity, Rick dipped into his bag for the final time before condemning it to the floor with a kick. With the comic on show now, what Vyvyan thought of it became all the more important. From the way Rick was holding it, he couldn’t see the front cover. That said, his suspicious eyes were already dissecting the back.

“What’s this then?” he asked.

Rick thrust it towards him.

“M-merry Christmas, V-Vyvyan,” he just about managed to stutter out. Pathetic, really.

Painfully slowly, the punk took the old copy of _The Beano_ from Rick and analysed it, scrunching his face in puzzlement and then… more puzzlement.

“Why’ve you got me this, Rick?” he questioned him.

There was clearly more lined within this question than a person with no knowledge of Vyvyan’s past would have realised. It _was_ pretty ruddy creepy really for Rick to have produced this from seemingly thin air – especially after a fight. As far as he knew, Vyvyan hadn’t ever told him about his mother burning his Christmas present all those years ago.

“Well,” Rick reasoned nervously, “It’s Christmas…”

“Why _this_?” Vyvyan pushed, leaving no room for misinterpretation, “How did you know?”

“I-I- _you told me_!” Rick lied, eyes growing wild, “Yes, you told me – one time when you were drunk! Bit of pretty bloody brilliant luck that I managed to find it, eh? _Wasn’t it_!?”

This wouldn’t have fooled anyone and it certainly didn’t fool Vyvyan, whose eyes were narrowing like the perceptive bastard Rick knew he was. He peered once more at _The Beano_ and – by some stroke of frightfully good fortune – appeared to soften. It was as if the intention behind this had _maybe_ , _possibly_ gotten through to him.

“I don’t believe you and I’m going to get the truth out of you later, prick,” Vyvyan told him coolly, “But… thanks. I didn’t realise you’d paid any attention.”

 _Ouch_. That hurt. It wasn’t completely unwarranted, Rick had to admit as he squirmed, though it was upsetting all the same.

“Vyv,” he pressed, with some urgency, “Can we please talk? _Alone_?”

Vyvyan grunted and shrugged, stuffing _The Beano_ – which Rick was quietly pleased to see him fold up uncharacteristically neatly first – into one of the pockets of his jeans.

“Anything you say, _darling_.”

***

Inside Vyvyan’s room, Rick felt comfortable. It was as if his subconscious somehow knew that this was a secure place, despite the utter filth lining every wall, floorboard, corner, window and bed. In here, it would always just be him and Vyvyan – not least because Neil was forbidden from stepping foot in the room. Important things had happened in this room. They had both lost their virginity, of course, but it was more than that: this was where they could be a couple and not have any cares for what any of the outside world might think of that. Even Rick’s cycle of worries about whether his parents would have approved was somehow dulled in the punk’s bedroom. Maybe it was the overriding stench of _Vyvyan_ that blocked everything else out? Rick didn’t much care, he was only glad that such a haven existed for _right_ _now_. For this tricky conversation.

Taking a deep breath, he turned around to face his boyfriend. The door was already shut, which meant either Vyvyan had grasped that Rick was about to tell him something _big_ or he was planning on murdering him.

“Right…” Rick started uneasily.

“Left,” Vyvyan muttered back, scuffing his docs on the floor.

The poet furrowed his brow in confusion for a moment before he got it.

“Ohh – right, left. Yes, brilliant stuff…” He didn’t mean that sincerely but he couldn’t bring himself to act outraged or even so much as roll his eyes at the person before him. “L-look- look, Vyv… there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

Uttering those words felt like sealing a particular fate. Rick could only hope it was a fate better than working for disturbingly attractive Tory MPs…

“Yeah,” Vyvyan grunted, avoiding his eyes, “I thought there might be…”

He appeared to be steeling himself up, as though he expected Rick was about to diagnose him with something terminal. It was odd to see Vyvyan so unsure of himself. Rick wasn’t sure if _he_ had ever made the punk react in this way; it certainly wasn’t helping his guilty feelings.

“I’ve… I’ve not been open enough with you about something… something important…” Rick confessed, biting his lip, “I’ve not been coping very well, Vyvyan-”

“I noticed,” he interrupted. Bluntly.

Rick winced.

“Yes, well, that’s why I’m telling you now. Be-because I had such a _blummin’ awful_ dream last night and it made me realise…” he trailed off and swallowed, then cleared his throat. “It made me realise that y-you’re just… you’re so _ruddy_ important to me and-”

Oh god, he was tearing up _again_! How foolish of him to have assumed he had cried himself dry after last night’s misadventures! This was ridiculous – he hadn’t meant to goad Vyvyan into taking pity on him and forgiving him _that_ way. Rick had wanted to say his piece!

“ _Bollocks_!” he hissed, turning away from the punk and stepping over to the window.

Rick wiped at his eyes and tried to focus on calming his breathing and suddenly rather speedy heartrate. What a colossal _prick_ he really was – that poltergoost had been right. After a moment or two, the sound of creaking floorboards confirmed that Vyvyan was slowly approaching him. He felt his warm breath on his neck before he could even contemplate the likelihood of the punk wanting to be anywhere near him. Though, in fairness, Vyvyan never had been an expert with personal space, had he?

“Bollocks, eh?” Vyvyan remarked. He sounded softer than normal; he must have been putting the effort in to be so. Maybe getting him _The Beano_ really had been a spark of genius. “I never realised they meant so much to you, Rick.”

It was obviously meant in jest and, on the one hand, hearing Vyvyan tease him was a magnificently _good_ sign. But this wasn’t something the two of them could brush under the rug with humour. Not this time. Rick knew that now. He spun back around to face his boyfriend and was briefly frozen in awe at not only how close Vyvyan was to him, but by how astonishingly _blue_ his eyes were in natural light. Thank _fuck_ they weren’t red.

“I’m serious, Vyvyan – you _are_ ruddy important to me.”

Maybe there was something too earnest in Rick’s face for Vyvyan stepped away from him then and crossed his arms. A part of Rick felt like running away at this but he knew he couldn’t.

“Am I, Rick? Am I _really_? Because it doesn’t always feel that way,” the punk told him honestly, looking away from him, “More and more it seems that you’ve got your issues… and that they’re none of my business.”

Hearing this reminded the poet of Vyvyan’s drunken rantings during his beating of Colin. A beating that _hopefully_ would not come to pass. He knew he had made him feel unimportant or distrusted or maybe both. It was funny, really – who would have thought a year ago that Vyvyan Basterd would have been upset that he thought Rick Pratt didn’t trust him with his poofy little feelings? Rick sighed.

“I know… and that’s _my_ fault,” he admitted, “I’m taking full responsibility.”

The punk cocked an eyebrow at him; this was rather out of character behaviour for Rick.

“This dream made you change your mind about Christmas being ‘ _humbug’_ then?” Vyvyan asked, apparently still waiting for the other boot to drop.

Oh yeah: Rick’s mad ravings about Christmas. He had almost forgotten about them after everything. The memory of his most recent temper tantrum – most recent if you didn’t count his time with the poltergoosts, which Rick definitely _wasn’t_ – made him squirm. It didn’t help that Vyvyan had decided to look at him again now with a gaze as scrutinising as ever, like Rick was something he was in the middle of dissecting in class yet hadn’t understood yet.

“Yes,” Rick confirmed seriously, “I _do_ still think Christmas is a pervy capitalist’s wet dream but that wasn’t really why I was so angry. I kept telling myself that if I got through Christmas then everything would be great again… but that’s… not true. Everything in my head keeps coming back to my… to my parents… and I’m _sick_ of it.”

There was a silence where neither boy seemed to know exactly what to say next. This was a ruddy hard feeling to explain on Rick’s part; he imagined it was similarly difficult to understand on the receiving end. About to try and clarify what he meant, he was cut off by Vyvyan clearing his throat.

“Is that why you’ve kept this to yourself?” the punk asked him.

His voice was quiet and wobbly; unnatural. Frowning slightly, Rick took a tentative step towards him.

“What do you mean?” he asked back.

“You haven’t told me much about grieving for your parents because y-you know that I-”

Oh, no, no, no, _no_! This was going _hideously_ wrong! Vyvyan was _shaking_ , still with his arms crossed, appearing on the edge of _crying_. Instinctively, Rick closed the gap between them and took the punk’s face in his hands, grateful to Cliff that Vyvyan actually _let him_. He shook his head fiercely and tried to swallow his own trigger-happy tears.

“No, Vyvyan, _no_.” Rick was firm. “Your mother is a horrid, old cow and I’d like to set her bottom on fire. This has _nothing_ to do with her, I promise you.”

Gloriously, this quip garnered a strained chuckle from the punk and Rick noted that the sides of his mouth had turned upwards in amusement. He trailed his right thumb over the spot marked skin of Vyvyan’s cheek and let his left-hand drift down to find Vyvyan’s right. For a short second, he could feel the scars along his boyfriend’s forearm; a reminder if there ever was one of how lucky he was to have had the last six months with Vyvyan at all. He smiled as the punk responded to his joining of their hands by squeezing gently.

“Why not then?” Vyvyan questioned, sounding more like himself although undeniably still hurt and confused.

Why indeed. Rick knew why – he just also knew it sounded bloody stupid when said out loud. It had become an overriding, unhealthy obsession. The fever in his boyfriend’s expression prompted him to answer.

“Well, it’s something quite irrational, I suppose,” he mused with a melancholy sigh, “You see, I never actually… _came out_ to my parents.”

Vyvyan’s grip on his hand intensified whilst his brow creased in concern. Rick took this as a cue to go on.

“I know that’s not exactly uncommon in the poofy department but… oh, _I don’t know_! I suppose I always assumed that one day I _might_ , or that I’d at least have a few more years to build myself up to it before they went and popped their ruddy clogs! It’s not fair!” Rick complained, growing more petulant as his emotions skyrocketed, “And it’s blummin’ _ridiculous_ of me to care so much about what a couple of squares who voted Tory might think of me, _I know_ _that,_ _Vyvyan_. It wouldn’t even matter if they were still alive! But…”

“But they’re dead,” Vyvyan finished for him.

Rick nodded, his vision blurring with tears.

“Yes. Yes, they are,” he agreed, voice thick, “And _I did_ love them. And I miss them.”

Without a word, the punk moved to do something simple and yet oh so significant. As Rick started to sniffle at the truth of his own words, Vyvyan brought his free hand up to his face and wiped away a stray tear. Such an act of casual intimacy, done without any interjection or judgement of Rick’s feelings, made the poet’s heart swell in such a wonderful way. How could he have not opened up to Vyvyan sooner? How had he let himself get so bad that he required an intervention from an imaginary friend?

“But it’s been _terrifying_ ,” he quickly confessed, close to rambling as all of it suddenly flooded from him, “Bec-because what if this meant I’d _never_ stop worrying about what they might think? What if I dr-drove you away and lost you?”

Although Rick had no doubt that his own face was currently twisting with all sorts of selfish miseries, Vyvyan’s was monumentally more interesting. To Rick, at least. He was doing a mild form of _the scrunch_ – perhaps as a form of protection against his own unwanted feelings – but his eyes were screaming. Not his normal screams of violence, crudeness or jeer, a more guttural and primitive scream. One that Rick somehow understood in that moment; one that he felt certain he must have been returning just as strongly. A deeply unhappy scream but a defiant one, all the same. What was perhaps the crux of Rick’s short-term guilt suddenly occurred to him and he removed his now trembling right hand from Vyvyan’s cheek to muffle a small sob.

“And god, Vyvyan, _I ruined our first Christmas_!” he wailed, “I’m so ruddy self-absorbed, just like you’ve always said!”

He truly did _hate_ that he had broken down on Vyvyan; it felt like cheating, like he was trying to avoid the blowback for being such an utter bottom-boil. Even though in the past Vyvyan had had no qualms about screaming at him when he was crying, this situation was different. _Everything_ was different. Maybe that should be his new year’s resolution, along with the other nine billion Rick would need if he was truly going to snap himself from this self-destructive cycle and become a more deserving boyfriend: _learn to better control emotions_. Weren’t there people who could teach you to do that?

“Hey, hey… calm down, you big girl…”

The sound of Vyvyan _comforting_ him was enough to break Rick out of yet another self-involved inner conundrum. Was he- yes, yes he _was_. Vyvyan was _hugging_ him. Properly. Both arms wrapped around him and his head resting on his shoulder. To be fair, this had happened plenty of times before – usually fleetingly if Vyvyan was especially excited about something or during whatever previous wobbles Rick had put him through without explanation. Or after sex. The important difference here was that he had given Rick the opportunity to _hug him back_ , rather than simply cling to him pathetically or stay stunned still in shock. In fact, the poet’s arms had already found their way around Vyvyan’s torso off their own accord, quite as naturally as breathing.

“You’ve not ruined anything, poof,” Vyvyan murmured into his shoulder, creating a slight tickling sensation. Rick remembered with a jolt that he was technically witnessing Christmas 1984 take two. “Not unless you’re planning on badgering the band to play Cliff Richard, anyway.”

Rick drew back to look at him, all red faced and shiny cheeked, and laughed despite himself. A trademark grin lit up Vyvyan’s face.

“S-so you’re alright with me coming to see the band too?” Rick asked hesitantly.

“Of course I bloody am – that was the whole point!”

Vyvyan flicked his forehead and smirked. However, it appeared even _he_ was willing to take some things seriously because the next thing Rick knew, the punk was holding their hands in front of them both.

“Vyv-”

“Shut up, Rick.”

He bobbed his head down and simultaneously brought Rick’s hands up to kiss them, evidently delighting in the way this instantly quietened his boyfriend’s running mouth. Blue eyes met blue eyes – it was like some sort of poem… about a blummin’ great lot of blue eyes.

“Thank you for telling me what’s wrong,” Vyvyan said, his soft voice back again, “I care too, you know. It’s bloody annoying how much I care about your bogey-bum sometimes.”

Rick rolled his eyes fondly.

“I know you do…” he whispered.

Vyvyan nodded.

“But it’s my _completely professional_ opinion that you’re not _quite_ as snivelling and stupid as you probably appear to most people.”

“Wh- is that- what am I supposed to say to _that_!?”

“It’s meant to be a compliment! And it’s not just you – it’s me too, and Mike and Neil. I mean, after what we’ve all been through, we’re not really your average students anymore, are we?” Vyvyan pointed out.

Rick contemplated this for a moment. To be honest, he had never viewed their brush with death that way. Sure, Rick before and after the crash had proclaimed several times that he – and later, Vyvyan – were clearly special and great but most of that was just bluster and arrogance. The notion that maybe the four of them were indeed… _something_.

_Young Ones. Bachelor Boys. Crazy, mad, wild-eyed, big-bottomed anarchists!_

Could that possibly be true? The poet frowned.

“Why are you telling me this now, Vyvyan?”

“ _Because_ …” Vyvyan dragged the word out, swinging their arms between them restlessly. “’Cos you’re going to get through this shit bit, Rick.”

“You think so?” Rick inquired sceptically.

“I know so,” Vyvyan corrected him, “Do you know how many times I’ve tried to kill you and failed? Nine hundred and thirteen – _nine hundred and bloody thirteen times_! You’re stubborn, prick, you’ve just got to _keep on_ being stubborn.”

By now, Rick had started to giggle like a schoolchild – he melted _far too_ easily when nice things were said about him. Still, who ruddy cared? It was Christmas; they had a terrible concert to go to; they had the rest of their lives after that!

“Yes, well, I suppose I am a bit of a death-defying demigod really, aren’t I?” Rick agreed with a faraway smile on his face.

Taking his boyfriend’s moment of daydreaming as the time to finally strike, Vyvyan shoved a box into his hands and stepped back, almost nervous again. Immediately sensing this shift, Rick glanced down to see what he had been given and realised – with an almighty leap of his heart – that it was Vyvyan’s Christmas present for him. Oh Cliff, presents! Though Rick may not have been that six year old wrapping paper shredder anymore, the excitement and curiosity of what on earth this could be had been gnawing away at him for some time.

“Merry Christmas,” Vyvyan told him, deliberately reserved, “It’s not much but, ah, it’s a punk thing.”

Now Rick really _was_ intrigued!

Without a millisecond’s hesitation, he tore the flimsy red paper from the box – which was revealed to be made of rusting metal – and opened the lid. Inside was a single, silver key attached to a bit of old string. A younger, slightly stroppier Rick would have decried this gift and thrown a fit about how random and pointless it was. This Rick, on the other hand, had seen this key before… on Sue. That necklace hadn’t been a necklace. Once again, he felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes at the sheer _gravity_ of what he had just been bequeathed.

“The key to y-your padlock,” Rick stuttered.

“Uh huh,” Vyvyan confirmed awkwardly, “Is it alright?”

Rick stared at him blankly for a moment, eyes wide and mouth agape. Had he _heard_ him correctly?

“Is it… _alright_!?” the poet repeated with some incredulity, “Vyvyan, it’s the most thoughtful gift anyone’s ever given me! You _bastard_!”

He marched over to the punk, key gripped tightly in his hand, grabbed his chin with the other hand and kissed him roughly. A tad surprised at this reaction to what he had worried passingly was such a small token, Vyvyan let out a short moan of shock before kissing Rick back. A smirk had soon blossomed on his spotty face.

“You like it then?” he ascertained smugly.

“Yes, I ruddy do!” Rick confirmed, quickly slipping the string around his neck. “Oh, Vyv, I love it! I’m sorry for behaving like such a bastard.”

And he meant that. Excruciating apologies or simple ones, Rick realised it didn’t matter – all that mattered was that, amidst all the crazy, they both knew that they had the other’s back and that there was something deeper to all of this bollocks. Vyvyan shrugged as nonchalantly as he was able at his boyfriend’s gushing, melodramatic tendencies. There was a cheeky twinkle in his eyes all of a sudden.

“I’ll forgive you if you swear to _carry on_ behaving like such a bastard… but you let me join in,” he offered.

“Deal,” Rick replied automatically and with a mischievous grin. “I’m in love with you.”

“Yeah, I know – why else would you be so interested in my bottom?” Vyvyan teased him before sobering up with uncanny speed, “I love you too, you poof.”

“Fascist!”

***

And that was how Drop Dead Fred found them when he materialised in Vyvyan’s room about thirty seconds later. No, they weren’t doing _that_ – they did have a concert to go to and three other people likely listening downstairs. They were snogging what Fred presumed were each other’s faces off and making all manner of desperate, uncultured noises. It was like stepping into a horror movie and not even a good one! Upon taking this all in, the anticipatory grin of success on the imaginary friend’s face was replaced quickly with a retch of pure revulsion.

“ _Eugh_! What a couple of _disgusting_ girls you two are!” he complained.

Neither Rick nor Vyvyan reacted to his intrusion one iota, simply opting to carry on sucking at each other.

“Did you hear that, spot face? That’s not how the pigeons go at it, you know!” Fred tried again, just in case Rick had momentarily gone deaf.

There was still nothing. Fred gave up the repulsed act – although he really did find all acts of romance quite _phenomenally_ putrid, for the record, there was absolutely _no_ doubt about that – and quietened himself down. An unexpectedly mature, proud smile spread across his features as Rick continued being oblivious to his mere existence here.

“No, no you don’t hear me, do you?” he asked pointlessly.

_Another job well d-_

_THUD – THUD – THUD._

The sound of fast footfalls on the stairs caught Fred’s attention for a reason he couldn’t quite deduce. He glanced back at the happy couple and stuck his tongue out.

“You and Viagra have fun, spot face – I’ve found someone more interesting!”

With a jangle, he disappeared from the punk’s bedroom and then rematerialised where he could sense the new person had dashed off to: the bathroom. The most gruesome bathroom in the country too, by the looks of things. Fred nodded his approval.

The new and interesting _certain someone_ was bent over the sink with their hands clasping the filthy enamel, as if for dear life. Fred was sure he recognised this newcomer though they weren’t any of Rick’s other housemates. The figure had hair not dissimilar to Rick’s own – although less ridiculous, Fred had to admit – and was clad in a blue anorak. He – Fred was about ninety percent certain of that – was muttering anxiously to himself, his breathing rather heavy.

“Come on, Kevin, not here… not now… oh, _bogey crap_ …”

Ooh, and he wasn’t from around here, was he? Fred did like exploring new places.

The figure – Rick’s cousin, Kevin Turvey – straightened himself out to peer at his reflection in the mirror. Fred noted the increasing resemblance between his previous charge and the one in front of him with a grin. Ah, this was _the cousin_. Strange family, eh? Kevin wasn’t looking all that stable even before Fred declared his unparalleled presence to the poor sod.

“ARE YOU GOING TO HAVE A PISS IN HERE, OR _WHAT_?”

And just as Fred had suspected he might, Kevin jumped. When he spotted the grinning ginger man decked out in green in the mirror’s reflection, it was all he could do not to lose his tether to reality altogether and call it a day. As Kevin turned around to face Fred properly – the latter’s grin only widening like a Cheshire cat as he did so – he just about managed to hold a finger up to him as rebuttal. He needed the other hand, of course, to continue holding on to the sink.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing in here, mate,” Kevin started a tad nervously, “But I’d prefer it if you gave me a bit of privacy in the lavatory, _if you don’t mind_.”

He was getting paler by the second! This would be _great_!

“Hi there, spot face’s cousin!” Fred greeted his new charge as if they were old friends, “I’m Drop Dead Fred and we’re going to have _a lot_ of fun together…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand that's that for ABC! Thank you once again for reading. :D
> 
> *I like writing Kevin. I mean, I don't know how good my characterisation is but it seems to be getting easier? He's sweet, anyway. <3  
> *Christmas shopping in Hammersmith? Underneath Richie and Eddie's flat? It's more likely than you'd think. I know that getting all the stuff Rick did on Christmas day in 1984 is probably a bit of a reach... but this is TYO so surreal is the way to go.  
> *People of Redditch: I'm sure your town is lovely. Please ignore Rick. XD  
> *It seems to be a theme in my fics for Rivyan to have a talk(TM) at the end. I had to rewrite their talk a lot because some the emotions in this fic got so complex and I struggled a bit with how to make Vyvyan respond to Rick's outpouring. It is very difficult adding depth to characters who were supposed to be stereotypes! XD It's fun, though. I'm content with the end result... I think. Hope it feels earned.  
> *THE KEY TO VYV'S PADLOCK. Okay, I can't actually take credit for this adorable idea - EvilEd let me magpie it from her fic, Closets (go read it, go read it, go read it) so thank you for that!  
> *Rick has still got some work to do. He's got a lot of internalised homophobia, complicated grief and just general bastardy to sort out. That said, I think he's made a good start.  
> *Kevin and Fred! Whilst I've spilled various things about ABC to various people over the past year, the one thing I kept close to my chest is the ending. As I mentioned in another chapter, after rewatching The Man Behind The Green door and seeing Kevin sorta zone out a bit I naturally decided to twist this into a lovely layer of angst. Now, I'm not saying for one second that having Fred around would magically fix whatever is wrong but I think it could help, you know? Anyway, now I have a possible sequel for if inspiration hits...
> 
> Thanks for reading part 5! :)  
> Thanks for reading A Bastard's Carol. Happy New Year!
> 
> ~Cliff bless us, Everyone!~


End file.
